Cookie Dough 5: Dark Knight of the Soul
by DavidB226Morris
Summary: When vampires invade Gotham, AngelSlayer sends Faith and Spike to handle it. But Batman and Commisioner Gordon don't welcome them with open arms.We're finished at last, and anew story will come. Review.
1. Prologue

COOKIE DOUGH 5: Dark Knight of the Soul

A Buffy/Batman crossover

By David Morris and Allan Yoskowitz

Summary: When an invasion of the undead hits Gotham City, Angel-Slayer sends Faith, Andrew and Spike to clean things up. But Commissioner Gordon and Batman do not welcome them with open arms.

Rating: PG-13, possibly R for graphic violence

Disclaimer: The characters of Faith, Andrew and Spike, along with the rest of the team at Angel-Slayer are the property of Joss Whedon and all the other brilliant writers at Mutant Enemy. The characters of Batman, Robin and all of the other residents of Gotham are the property of DC Comics and their staff. We make no claim to them nor will they ever in any way, shape or form belong to us. We are merely borrowing them.

Spoilers: Not much for the Buffy-verse. This is an alternate universe taking place after the series finale of Buffy and the season 4 finale of Angel. However it would definitely have helped matters if you had read my earlier stories Cookie Dough 1 through 4, all of which are available at I'm not sure what spoilers there are for the Batman universe but we will figure that out as we go to.

Note: With the exception of the first chapter, the entire story will be set in Gotham City. Most of the characters in the Buffy-verse will only be passing through. If the world of Batman is not your cup of tea, exit the cabin now. Otherwise, buckle up….

Prologue

A wise man (to be truthful, he wasn't exactly a man, but that's neither here nor there…) once said we don't always recognize the big moments when we see them. That is, assuming that we can even be bothered to look up from our everyday lives. It is a matter of record that George III of England in his journals for July 4, 1776 wrote: "Nothing important happened today." There were few headlines in the national papers when the Wright Brothers created the airplane. And, when the entire population of a small town in Southern California departed mere days before the entire city 'sank' into the ground, no major network reported it, or the other strange feats that had happened in the town in previous years.

So, on August 27, 2003, the night that Gotham changed forever, there were no banner headlines, television broadcasts or police reports. The only person who witnessed the historic (or perhaps infamous might be the better word) was an insignificant, unremarkable hoodlum named Bobby Kilbane, who probably had no idea of the magnitude of what he was witnessing. This was only appropriate; after all, for almost his entire life, no one had really noticed him.

In a city that was full of some of the most notorious criminals and arch-villains, Bobby barely registered on anyone's radar. His rap-sheet consisted of one count of petty larceny and possession of an illegal firearm--- which on the streets of Gotham made him practically a virgin. The police didn't think a great deal of Bobby, and the underworld of Gotham thought even less. He was a small-time stickup man in a big-time city, with no links or ties to any of the major crime bosses or 'less savory' felons that the city was famous for.

Bobby didn't smoke, drink, or use controlled substances. If anyone bothered to ask him why, he would say his parents had believed the body was a temple. No one bothered to ask him about the contradiction between his occupation and his hygiene because no one really cared about him at all.

He did have one vice, however. Bobby liked to play the ponies. That was an expensive hobby – especially if your main source of income came from other people's wallets. So it was that Bobby had made the acquaintance of several low-level loan sharks and bookies. One thing had led to another, until finally Bobby owed nearly thirty thousand dollars to various parties.

This being Gotham, the men he owed the money to had expressed their dismay (at his lack of repayment) in the usual methods, and, as a result, Bobby was walking the streets with three broken fingers and two broken toes. Those same gentlemen had made it very clear that if he did not come up with the money, and soon, larger and more important parts of him would be broken.

That was why Bobby had been on the streets of Gotham that night, attempting to ply his trade on some of the less fortunate citizens of the city.

Needless to say, he was having not a good night. For one thing, Gotham was a city which in, as a rule, people were more vigilant on the streets than the usual. For another, it isn't easy to sneak up on someone when you are walking with a pronounced limp.

Bobby was more than a little distracted. He was an unpleasant person, no question, but the gentlemen he had pissed off were far nastier and much crueler than he was. Also, he was afraid one of them was working for the Maroni family, one of Gotham's more unpleasant cartels.

As a matter of fact, one of them was. As a further matter of mact, it didn't make much difference. The individuals he was about to encounter were deadly enough to make the Mob seem like candy stripers.

Bobby had no idea of that, though. All he thought of was that there was a well-dressed woman standing by a car with the hood open. She was practically begging to be robbed, and she looked rich. The pendant around her neck looked like it was silver. He might be able to get four or five C for it, easy. Add that to the four he already had, and he would finally have enough for a good bet on the fourth at Pimloco.

That his plans had led him to the condition he was in now never once occurred to him. He had never believed in planning for the 'long-term', as his ex-girlfriend had kept trying to get him to. Even if she had been right about that, anyway, robbing this stupid woman (who was dumb enough to be out on the Gotham streets this late at night) was a sure thing.

He decided he would try the approach of the 'helpful stranger'. He wasn't sure it would work, this late, but it was less conspicuous, and it would give him a better chance of taking the car with him when he cleaned the stupid bitch out.

"Good Evening." Bobby said as he walked toward the car. "You look as you could use some help."

"Oh, thank the lord, "the woman said. "My cell is dead, and my husband hasn't come back yet. "

"Where'd he go?"

"Somewhere off that way," She pointed down the block, not seeming to be really certain. "He was looking for a pay phone so we could call a garage and get the car towed. It's been twenty minutes, and I'm beginning to worry that something might have happened to him."

If, perhaps, Bobby had been a little brighter, warning bells would have started to go off in his head. To anyone with any intelligence who was watching, it would have been clear that there was something strange going on. The woman's behavior was too perfect. It was too practiced, as if she were acting out a part.

Bobby wasn't that bright, though, and he was too focused on getting the job done. "You said twenty minutes?" he asked.

"I think it's been twenty minutes, yes." She looked at her watch (nothing there, just a Timex…)

"It's a little late for you to be out around here."

"Well, we just drove here from the coast." She looked around. "This is a nice neighborhood."

Bobby looked around, a little nervous now. They were right near 'Crime Alley'. The area was full of low-rent brick apartment buildings, homeless people and petty thugs. "You think it's nice around here?" he asked, a little uncertain.

"Well, it all depends on your perspective, to be honest." She looked over at him. "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

He hooked his coat pocket with his thumb, getting ready to pull the knife he carried. "What do you want to know?"

"Do you mind if I---- --- have a drink?"

He didn't hear her finish the question. All his attention was focused on her face. It had changed – there was a ridge on her nose, her eyes had moved closer together. And… in her mouth… _fangs_.

_There were fangs in her mouth._

_I have to run_, he thought. He took a step back---

--- And bumped in to someone else. A moment later he found himself held in place by a pair of impossibly strong hands, and a moment after that, teeth sinking in to his neck. After that, nothing more.

When they had finished with him, the male burped greedily. "It never gets old, does it?" he said.

She did not answer him, instead moving to pick the corpse up off of the ground.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "We can leave him there. They find what they'd call 'strange' dead bodies around here all the time."

"We don't want to tip our hand just yet." she answered him. "The longer that no one knows we're in town, the better for us." She carried the body to the car's trunk.

"I cannot _believe_ that moron fell for that 'lost stranger' crap," he chortled.

"People can be very stupid when they want something." She picked up the knife she had found in her would-be rescuer's coat. "Especially when they're criminals."

"A metropolis filled with abandoned buildings and sewer drains," the male spoke gleefully. "…A high crime area with killers to take the rap for every person that disappears." He turned to his companion, smiling, fangs bared. "This city is the perfect place for us and our friends to call home."


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"All right, may I have everyone's attention?" The voice was formal and firm – the accent wasBritish, and it was clear he was a little frustrated by his associates continuing to talk among themselves even after he had requested silence. A few seconds passed, and the conversation came to a halt. Everyone turned toward to the head of the table, and to Wesley, who stood there. "I believe that we are ready to begin the first official board meeting of Angel-Slayer Inc."

Wesley took his seat and began to look around the table, not only at the people in the room, but also at those on the video screens that showed the other contingents of their organization.

"Some of you are meeting us for the first time, and may not be entirely clear on whom each of us is, and our purpose in being here." He paused a moment, then went on. "Let me briefly review. Six months ago, after Angel, Fred, Gunn, Lorne and I were offered ownership of these offices by Wolfram & Hart, Buffy, a group of her friends and a regime of Slayers came here from Sunnydale with a suggestion. "

He took a breath, and then continued to speak. "Together we decided to rebuild and reform the previously-defunct Watcher's Council. Our intention was to use this office and its resourced to build an organization capable of battling the forces of darkness on an epic scale. After several long months of difficult recruitment and hard work by everyone here, we are ready to begin our effort." He looked to his immediate left. "Buffy?"

The blonde haired Slayer rose. "I've heard a lot of people say that to fight and completely defeat the evil in this world is impossible." She put her hands on the table. "Maybe it is. Still, my friends and I have been fighting that supposedly impossible-to-stop evil for nearly seven years. We have faced impossible odds against demons and vampires and hellgods over and over again…"

Another voice interrupted her speech. "…Some of which are sitting at this table right now."

Half the board shot dirty looks toward Spike, sitting alone at the end of the table. He did his best to maintain an innocent face as he spoke. "What? I didn't say they won."

Buffy shifted her attention away from Spike and back to what she had been in the process of saying. "We have dealt with prophecies that have foretold the Apocalypse. Time after time, we have shut them down. Six months ago, my friends and I stopped what was supposedly the source of all evil from destroying the world." She stopped speaking for a moment, looking around at everyone else who was at the table with her.

"None of it has been easy--- and it has always come with a cost--- but we have succeeded at beating the odds. This won't be easy—it never is--- but I think if we all try, we might just be able to pull this off. "

She let her words sink in for a few seconds. "Alright then. Now that I've made my little speech, I'm going to let the others tell you some of the details." She looked across the table. "Will?"

As Willow rose to begin discussing new Watcher-Slayer recruitment policy, almost everyone at the table shifted their attention to her. Andrew, sitting next to Fred, thought that some of the other people in the room – Angel and Faith, in particular, seemed more than a little distracted. They knew what Willow was saying, chapter and verse, but he was sure that wasn't it. They were thinking about the same thing that he and everyone else was thinking about. The elephant in the room – the cost of the last time they had had to save the world.

It had been two months s since Ethan Rayne and Harmony, backed by some larger force – a force they still hadn't been able to identify --- had tried to resurrect Jasmine. Two months since they had brought back the ancient goddess back in the last body she had inhabited. Cordelia's.

The Slayers and their associates had won, but the price had been far greater then they had ever expected. Giles, the man who had served as the sort-of father figure for the group, had been severely wounded in an explosion. The burns and the scars from his injuries had healed, but his hearing had been nearly ruined. The scientists and doctors of Angel-Slayer had managed to repair some of the damage, but it was clear to anyone that he would never fight in the field again.

Robin Wood, the high school principal who had played a major role in the last battle of Sunnydale, had died from exposure to poison. It was enough that they had lost a man who was an impressive fighter – Robin and Faith had been involved, and his death had hit her very hard. Most of the board had gone the extra mile to try and be there for the dark-haired Slayer. She seemed to be recovering, but it was very difficult to see past the strong front she put up in front of them. In front of everyone, even the doctors.

And Cordelia was gone. Her spirit had nearly been completely destroyed by Jasmine, and her body shattered in the final sacrifice she had made. Her death had hit the Angel Investigations team very hard – Angel and Wesley most of all. Both vampire and human had loved her, and her loss was nearly too much for either of them to bear. Neither had come back to work for more than a month. But they had had help--- Wesley had Fred, Angel had Buffy--- both of whom had been trying their hardest to help them come to terms with what had happened.

One person had taken the loss harder than any of the others, though. The day after the memorial service for those who had died, Xander vanished.

None of them had spoken to him since, and the only time they had heard his voice was in a long message he had left for Willow. His tone made it clear that the pain he had been in before Cordelia had died had gotten stronger – that her death very well might have pushed him past the point of no return.

The message had told them not to make any attempts to find him. He needed, he had said, to be by himself for a while – that he needed time alone before he returned to them. Buffy and Willow had taken this to mean he would come back; Angel and Wesley, who had been in similar situations, however, thought otherwise.

The only good thing to come out of the last apocalypse had been Spike getting free from Hell and the return of Lindsey McDonald. Even that, though, was a mixed blessing. With the exception of Buffy and Andrew, most of the others felt Spike had a long way to go to prove himself to them. In fact, the only reason he was in the boardroom at the moment was because Buffy had insisted on it. And despite his (genuinely) brave acts during that same event, not one of them believed Lindsey could be sincere about _anything_ of any sort. Right now he was working under Gunn in the security section. Lindsey knew that he was on thin ice and didn't complain about it--- at least not to their faces.

It didn't take a super-nerd to see that the Angel-Slayer board was feeling very rocky. They knew they needed to get back to work doing good for the world, and that they needed to do it fast. They needed a trouble zone, as much as they did not like the idea. (Un) fortunately, it seemed Andrew believed he could give them one with no difficulty.

"And that takes care of the Midwest," finished Fred. "Now I'll hand this meeting over to Andrew, who will be dealing with problem-zones on the East Coast."

Andrew had gained a great deal of self-confidence over the past six months with them. Still, he needed several seconds fumbling with the papers he had in front of him before he was mentally ready to speak.

"One of the tasks that I was assigned--- given… whatever--- was to isolate known trouble spots in the East, such as Atlanta or Boston. However, I also spent some energy monitoring cities or towns that could pose an even greater threat if vampires and other undead were to rise..."

"That's beyond what we asked from you." said Wesley.

"Well, I think that it's a good thing that I did." Andrew responded."because one of them is already showing signs of vampire activity. It's small now, but if it gets big enough, we have the potential for a major disaster, and by extension in most of the surrounding cities."

That statement immediately got everyone's attention.

"Which city are we talking about?" asked Buffy.

"Willow?"

The young witch tapped a computer. Seconds later the image on the screen that was at the front of the room had changed to a picture of the Tri-State area. One city in particular was highlighted.

Andrew walked over to the screen. "Gotham City would be a dangerous place to live even if there was no demon or vampire activity."

The screen changed again, now showing several charts side-by-side. "According to the Census Bureau, it ranks ninth in the nation in assaults, seventh in robberies, and sixth in homicides. Several major crime families, including the Falcones and Maronis operate from the city. Also, there are more than a few major drug cartels in the city. Five of the FBI's ten most wanted call Gotham City home."

Andrew nodded and Willow tapped the computer again, changing the images on the screen. "With all the death and mayhem that takes place in the city, it's entirely possible that there has been undead activity for a while. It only started to become obvious about two months ago, though."

"Obvious? How?" asked Gunn.

Andrew, who'd been puttering right along, was a little thrown by the question. He fumbled over his papers for a few seconds before answering. "Two months ago, an article inthe _Gotham City Gazette_ reported the mysterious death of a woman by what is described as 'an unexplained neck wound.'" He a moment paused to let the implication sink in.

"Gotham's a big city, the guy was a nobody, so the story gets one paragraph on page twenty. Four days later another dead body shows up with the same kind of injuries. This one's female, so there's more publicity." Andrew gave a small smile. "The Gazette's a conservative paper; they waited until two more people showed up dead the same way before they hit the city with this headline."

The screen changed again, this time to a _Gazette_ newspaper headline reading **'FOURTH 'VAMPIRE VICTIM DISCOVERED; DID THE KILLER DRINK THEIR BLOOD?'**

"You can always count on the media for a mature, calming response to a crisis situation." Giles stated coolly.

"Hey, at least we know they're paying attention." retorted Angel.He looked over at Andrew. "How many more have turned up?"

Andrew gave a small smile. "Well the Gotham Police are apparently much smarter than the ones in Sunnydale. After this headline, the Police Commissioner put a media freeze on information on these and all future vamp attacks. And, miraculously, it seems to have worked; all that the media has written about since has been purely speculative."

"That was all you could get from the press?" asked Fred

Andrew nodded. "However, from what I was able to learn from the Gotham P.D.'s computers, there have been seven similar murders over the past six weeks. And those are just the ones they've found." Andrew paused a moment. "You should also know that there have been various reports saying that bodies have been 'disappearing' from Gotham's morgues."

"Great" said Buffy." So now vampires have invaded a city that already had a population of extremely corrupt and degenerate forces? Could this possibly get any worse?"

"Definitely." said Andrew grimly. When he saw that he had everyone's attention again, he gestured, and Willow changed the screen yet again. "It's bad enough that there are vamps in Gotham, but that's not the nightmare scenario. The nightmare is a vamp gets cocky, motivated and turns one of these people."

A series of mug-shots began to appear on the screen, one after the other. "In addition to the five I mentioned earlier, at least a dozen of the most notorious criminals in the world operate out of Gotham City. Seven of them are considered extremely dangerous. The worst of the lot is…" Andrew grimaced "…him."

The computer stopped on a picture of a man with white face, green hair and a hideous, stretched smile. "Jack Napier, a.k.a. 'the Joker'. No one knows exactly how many people he's killed, but he passed triple digits a long time ago, and there are rumors he's broken the quads, too. I don't know how much worse he could be if he was turned, but I don't think any of us wants to find out. The possibility of his involvement alone makes Gotham a priority."

"Okay. You've made your point." Angel said, grimly. "I think that we can all agree that we should move Gotham City to the top of the list."

"Absolutely." said Buffy. "We have to handle this now."

It was a general agreement around the table, except for one person.

"Now wait a tick." said Spike.

"What now, Spike?" asked Kennedy huffily.

"Now I agree with everyone we gotta handle Gotham, but there's something that you've left out. " He looked at all of them. "A certain someone who could get very pissed if we interfere with his territory?"

"What is he talking about?" asked Dawn, curious.

"He means the Batman." Angel said flatly.

There was silence for a few moments, and then Kennedy piped up:

"Please tell me that's not what I think it is."

"Yes, that sounds rather ominous." said Wesley.

"Don't tell me you've never heard of him?" asked Angel.

"Come on, you can't have spent five minutes in this country and not know of the Batman." asked Spike.

"We've spent the last seven years concentrating on the other side of the country." retorted Buffy. "Forgive us for not being up to the minute on this Bat Man or whatever the hell he is."

"Maybe you'd like to tell us about him since you know him so well." responded Gunn.

"Hang on, hang on." Spike gestured with his hands as if he as signaling for a timeout. "I only know of him. I've never the met the man."

"So he's a man." said Gunn.

"I didn't say that." When everyone turned to stare at him, Spike continued. "Come on. He's a man who only comes out at night; wears dark clothes, has top-notch speed and agility, oozes fear and intimidation and is practically a folk hero. I've known vamps like that." He gave a small smile. "I've _been_ vamps like that."

Buffy turned back towards Andrew. "You seem to know a lot about Gotham City. Is there any particular reason that you didn't mention him?"

Andrew sighed. "I am very familiar with the work of Batman and the reason that I didn't mention his name is because I'm not sure whether he'll be part of the problem or a part of the solution." He looked at the others.

"What is he, some kind of superhero?" asked Fred.

"No." said Andrew.

"What did you just---" Spike started.

"Buffy is a superhero. Willow is one. Angel's one." Andrew took a deep breath. "You have powers--- extraordinary strength, the ability to control magic, the ability to heal rapidly. Everything that I've read or seen about Batman says that he doesn't have any of these things. Any power he has, he got the old-fashioned way. He earned it. He's just a hero."

"How much do you think he knows about what's going on now?" asked Dawn.

"Probably a great deal about it." Andrew paused, then added: "There's a chance that he may have figured it out altogether already."

"He's that smart?' said Buffy incredulously.

"According to the rumors, he's the world's greatest detective." said Willow.

"Sherlock Holmes in a cape and cowl," said Angel. "There's an image for you."

"You seem to know a lot about this." Giles suddenly spoke up.

"What do you mean?" said Andrew nervously.

"I mean a lot of this is information that you couldn't have gotten by normal means." said Giles. "Or wholly legitimate ones."

Andrew considered making up a story, then junked the idea and sighed. "I got some of this information from a hacker source within Gotham City itself. We've been corresponding for a few weeks."

"Does this source have a name?" asked Buffy.

"I only know her by her handle." said Andrew. "Screen name is Oracle."

"And she decided to help you because…" Giles trailed off.

"I asked for help. She gave it to me." Andrew said shortly. "Can we leave it at that?"

There was a brief pause. "Are there any other major players in Gotham?" asked Wesley. Apparently he had decided to move on.

"A couple." admitted Andrew. "Batman has a partner, I guess you'd call him, named Robin." He risked a look at Faith but the Slayer remained as taciturn as ever. "There's some guy who supposedly looks out for the city's homeless with the name Nightwing."

" Nightwing? Batman? Can't these people have real names?" asked Buffy incredulously.

"That's why they're called secret identities." said Kennedy.

"I know but--- Nightwing?"

"What's wrong with it, Elizabeth?" said Spike sweetly.

"If we could return to the business at hand." said Wesley firmly. "Anyone else important in Gotham?"

Andrew looked at his notes. "There was a woman named Batgirl who worked with the others---"

"Bat**GIRL**?" said Kennedy, incredulous." the woman's lobby must be thrilled with that name."

"--- but she's been out of the picture for a few months. No one is quite sure what happened to her."

"All these heroes wandering around… does Gotham City even need a Slayer?" asked Willow.

"Yes. Definitely."

Everybody focused their attention on Faith. She had been silent for the majority of the meeting.

"What makes you so sure?" asked Angel.

"Because it doesn't matter how many criminals or mobsters or madmen that you've faced down. Nothing — _nothing_ can prepare you for having to face a vampire. These people may be strong, but they're not ready for this. They go in unprepared, and they'll end up dead or worse." Faith looked at Andrew. "You think the nightmare is them turning the Joker. It isn't. It's them turning Batman. For that reason alone we need to go to Gotham now."

"We still haven't decided how to handle the Batman." said Buffy.

"I'll figure out a way when I get there."

Wesley looked at Faith. "Was that your subtle way of volunteering for this assignment?"

Faith gave the ghost of a smile. "Guess it was."

"Whoa—whoa—whoa. " Kennedy seemed a little disturbed. "Why does it have to be you?"

"Because I know the area, I have the experience and because Buffy, Angel and Willow have to hold down the fort in L.A." Faith looked at the surprised faces of the other board members. "Or did I misunderstand the first part of the meeting?"

"You can't just make--- " started Buffy.

Angel stopped her with a look. "She's right. We're going to have our hands full dealing with the work here. This is a big project and we can't send one of the less experienced Slayers into this chaos. Faith has the experience, and she has the recognition factor."

There was a silence as everyone considered this. Giles spoke up. "If Faith were to go, we would need to send adequate back up. She can't go in alone."

"I'll go." Everyone turned to look at Andrew, who reddened a bit but gamely went on. "I mean, I'm dispensable and I've gotten to know Gotham pretty well. " He gave a small smile. "Besides, I've worked with Faith in the past. It makes sense."

There was a much shorter pause. "I think Andrew can do it." That came from Dawn.

There was general agreement around the table this time. Andrew wasn't sure to be happy that they trusted him, or upset that they considered him expendable. He decided to be happy.

"All right, but she still needs more than Andrew." said Gunn.

There was a long silence. Then Spike sighed. "What the heck. I'll go with Supergeek and Slayer 2.0."

Buffy and Angel both looked shocked, though Buffy seemed more upset and Angel more elated. "You really want to go there?" said Buffy.

"Well, as they say in the flicks, this town isn't big enough for two vampires with a soul. I need a place where I can whale on evil's ass without interference from Nancy Boy here."

"I couldn't agree more," said Angel sourly.

Buffy seemed to have gained her composure once again. "You're absolutely sure about this?"

"Pretty sure." Spike gave a small smile. "Besides I've always wanted to have a look at a bloke who's got the rocks to call himself the Batman…


	3. Chapter 2

Commissioner James Gordon had been in charge of the Gotham City Police for more than a decade. As the official face of law enforcement in one of the most crime-filled cities in the country, his ass was on the line when bosses like Rupert Thorne or Sofia Gigante decided to flex their muscle over the underworld, or when madmen like Solomon Grundy or Julian Day went on brutal killing sprees. It could be said he'd seen Gotham through some of the most difficult times in the city's history, except not even he could remember an easy one.

But as he looked over the police report on the latest victim of the most recent string of murders in the city, he was seriously beginning to consider that all the mayhem and carnage that he had witnessed in his years on the P.D. might have been nothing more than a warm-up for what was happening now.

The public face on these so-called 'vampire murders' was that of a lone lunatic who had been striking every week or so. The press was aware of ten victims--- four female, six male--- who had been found dead of massive blood loss with two small puncture wounds on the neck. All of the victims had different economic backgrounds, different nationalities, and no relationship to each other except that they were all dead. The idea of a serial killer seemingly killing at random was enough to throw the entire city into a state of panic. The Joker had been doing it for years, and they had gotten used to it. Let one nutcase show up and start making bad vampire references, and they were hysterical.

What the public didn't know--- what Gordon had managed to limit to the Department and a few other important individuals--- was that those murders were merely the tip of the iceberg. The city was on the verge of becoming a powder keg ready to explode at any moment.

"Commissioner?"

Gordon looked up from the report to see Detective Harvey Bullock standing in his doorway. He looked sour but that was his general attitude towards life.

"What is it, Harvey?" he asked with a sense of foreboding.

"This a bad time, boss?"

Gordon gave a small smile. "How often has it been a good time, Harv?"

"True, boss." Bullock entered his office and closed the door behind him. "I hate to add to your load, but I just came back from lock-up."

Gordon sighed and put down the police report. "And?"

"They just booked Hammer Nolan." Nolan was small time muscle who worked for the Maroni family. "He just confessed murdering Eddie Brooks."

"Wonderful." said Gordon. "I supposed that he gave a detailed description of how he killed Brooks, why he destroyed the body and that he was working independently at the time."

"Yep, yep and yep, Boss."

Eddie Brooks was a contract-killer for Rupert Thorne. Normally this would have been good news for the police. However, Brooks' murder and Nolan's confession were symptomatic of a larger problem in Gotham--- ones that could potentially dwarf the ones that Gordon had with the vampire- style killings.

Over the past two months there had been a string of deaths among certain known criminal players in Gotham. This was nothing new, of course, there had been these kinds of murders before Gordon had started working for the department, and they would no doubt continue after Gordon left.

There were, however, two very critical differences about this recent streak of murders. The first was, in all twelve killings, the killer had been caught---but never by the police. Every time, the murderer had come to the police and confessed. Most of them had criminal records. Some had no known priors, but all of them had connections to the city's crime syndicates . There was a lot of doubt as to the authenticity of their confessions but, in every case, they had been borne out by the evidence.

This was odd enough, but even stranger was the fact none of the killers, despite their connections, wanted to make any kind of deal. They took their sentences of twenty to life without offering any kind of defense whatsoever. They just didn't seem to care that they were giving up their life and property without any kind of fight at all.

Bullock shook his head. "I've dealt with Nolan a couple of times before. Coolest customer you've ever seen. When he picked up the pen to sign his confession, I swear his hands were shaking. Somebody really put the fear of God into him."

Gordon nodded. "What explanation did he give for turning himself in?"

A very small smile appeared on Bullock's face. "He just said that his conscience wouldn't let him sleep anymore." The smile disappeared. "Apparently beating a teenager up for not paying for drugs didn't bother him but killing a schmuck like Eddie Brooks did."

"And did he say what he did with the body?" That was the other critical difference about this string of homicides. In each of them the day after the killing the corpse had disappeared.

"He just said that a scumfuck like that didn't even warrant getting a proper burial." Bullock took out a cigarette and lit it. "Boss, what the hell is going on here?"

Gordon gave a small smile. "What's the matter, Harvey? The world's becoming a better place. I'd think that you'd be happy about getting these guys off the street."

Bullock's face puckered as if he had just swallowed a lemon. "Come on. Be serious. You know things like this have an effect on the world. Known guys from major crime families and cartels are getting greased. Their killers are players themselves. Nobody believes these guys are acting on their own so they get more and more pissed. Right now, half of the crooks in the city want to kill the other half. This one's just gonna make it worse."

Gordon gave a sigh. "What would you have me do Harvey? Send inthe United Nationsto make peace between Thorne and Maroni?' He gestured towards the outside. "There are still a lot of bodies falling out there for other reasons, Harv. You want me to start fretting over cases that are closed, and closed clean?"

Bullock put his hand to his head. "I know the city's going to hell and you've got a lot on your plate. But this ain't gonna go away, Chief." He looked at Gordon. "It's going to get to get bigger until not even that freak in the cape is going to be able to help." Then, perhaps knowing that he had gone too far, Bullock left his office.

Gordon wasn't pissed that Bullock had been baiting him. The truth was, he was getting very worried about what was going on. There was only one other man who might have an idea what the hell was going on and how to stop it.

He stood up and left his desk, hoping that Batman was having better luck than he was.

_**T**he_ Killer Croc did not look happy. No-one trapped inside a padded jail cell (proofed against his teeth, and his inhuman strength) would be. A transparent screen kept Croc visible to his guardians. Whatever it was made of, he'd tried to smash through it twice, and he hadn't even made a dent. It was thin enough for them to speak to him through, but too strong to break.

_**F**our_ of his ribs were taped together, the tape a stark white contrast against his dark, scaly blue-green skin. It was obvious he was mad – the Killer Croc was always mad at something or someone – but this time there was something else in his eyes beside the rage.

_**H**e _shifted on the floor of the cell (they had given him no furniture – it was too much of a risk), looking at the wall. The physicians and dentists had finished with him for the night – what they wanted with him, he still wasn't certain. It was obvious something was up.

_**I**t_ was five minutes later when the Batman appeared on the other side of the screen. Croc had looked down for a few seconds, and when he looked up, the Batman was there. It didn't surprise him the Bat was there, considering what was going on.

"_**C**roc."_ The Bat's voice was as flat and emotionless as usual, his mouth hard. His tone of voice made it clear that whatever he was there for, Croc wasn't going to like it.

"_**W**hat_ the fuck do you want, Bat-freak?" Croc's own voice made it very clear he wanted to be left to his business. Whatever it was that had happened to leave him in the cell, he wanted to forget about it.

"_**S**omeone_ deposited you on the steps of the Thirty-First precinct's station house at two AM, Croc. I've heard your story as to what happened. We both know you're lying." It almost seemed through the lenses that covered the Batman's eyes that he was staring right in to Croc's inner self – something that always unnerved Croc.

"_**S**crew_ off, Bat." Croc growled.

"_**N**o _gangland posse did what you're claiming they did to you, Croc. There are no marks anywhere on you. You've been beaten terribly, but there are no bruises. Whoever did this knew precisely what they were doing. They wanted you to live with the fact that they had done it to you."The Bat paused a moment. "If one of the families wanted you dead, Croc, we both know you would be."

Batman spoke matter-of-factly. He'd dealt with the Falcones, the Giovannes and the other 'families' of Gotham's criminal syndicate many times over. Whoever had done this with the Croc had come nowhere close to fitting their modus operandi. If they had wanted Croc punished, they would have kept it 'within the family'.

"_**I**t _doesn't matter. You wouldn't believe anything I told you, anyway." Croc's voice was angry and sullen at the same time, now, as if he was certain his fate was sealed. "I go before the grand jury in a week. Chances are they'll kill me no matter what I tell you, even if I tell you the truth. I didn't kill those people."

_**B**atman's_ mouth, the only visible part of his face, was a thin line. "_**T**hen _explain the indentations in their throats or wrists, Croc. They match your teeth exactly, and there isn't anyone else in this city that has teeth quite like yours."

"**_I_** didn't do it, damn you!" Croc was growing angrier.

"_**L**ying_ to me isn't going to save you from the needle, Croc." Batman exhaled. "Now. When did you start eating humans?"

Croc blinked, displaying an emotion he had never shown in front of the Batman before. Shock. Surprise.

"_**E**xSCUSE _me? I _DON'T_!"

"_**C**roc, _the bodies came to the infirmary with your tooth imprint in them. The next day they were gone. I know that some of the people you've worked for have contacts in the Medical Examiner's office. Did you bribe them to let you have the bodies?"

"_**I** _didn't pay them anything because **_I_** didn't do it!" Croc was clearly enraged now, and he tried to put one of his fists through the screen, visibly wincing afterward as he rubbed the knuckles that had been unable to even make a mark.

"_**A**nd _when did you start drinking blood?" The Batman's tone was now clinical, as if he were a psychologist doing an evaluation.

_**C**roc_ punched at the screen again, using the other hand. This time he did not react, and simply let his hand fall when the fist's contact did nothing. He screamed, enraged – as if what Batman had said to him had touched a nerve somewhere deep inside.

"**_I _**do _not_ drink blood! I _never_ would! Even _I_ have my limits, you stupid bastard! I _may_ kill people, but I _don't_ **eat** them and I **_don't_** drink blood!"

Batman did not react visibly, despite Croc's tirade. "_**T**hen _explain to me, Croc, why the bodies were completely drained. It keeps coming back to the fact that the imprints match your teeth perfectly, that these were gangland family members, and that someone dropped you on the steps of a police station. You tell us a gang beat you senseless, yet there isn't a mark on you."

_**C**roc_ spoke again, the rage gone, his tone once again sullen and humiliated. "You would never believe me, even if I told you the truth."

It was the humiliation in the tone that registered with Batman. He had dealt with Croc countless times over the years, and though he had known the half-breed to be angry and upset when he beat him badly, he couldn't remember a time when Croc had ever sounded so disgraced.

Abruptly, he changed his tone. "Try me."

For a moment it seemed as if Croc was going to raise an objection. Finally, he put his head in his hands and began to talk.

"The past month or so I've been dealing with some people who said they were from out-of-state." Croc started. "People who knew about my work with… well, you know, good family men."

Batman knew that Croc's involvement with the 'family men' of Gotham was far deeper than he was admitted but knew this was not the time to press. "What did they want?"

"Nothin' much. Just some names, anything I could tell 'em about some places in Gotham, and where people are in the 'totem pole'." Croc shrugged his massive shoulders. "They could have figured it out themselves if they knew where to look, but they offered me three times what I get for working for the family men, so I figured, what the fuck? Why not? But then, yesterday…" he trailed off.

"Then what?" asked Batman.

"Yesterday their questions started getting weird. Who were the ones with the weakest wills or the strongest spirit. Some kind of stupid new age bullshit. I told them that if they wanted to know that stuff it was going cost double."

"Double-crossing people always works so well for people in your profession." Batman spoke with no humor in his voice at all.

"Hey, what the fuck were they going to do? They were men and I'm… well… me! What chance would they have?"

"So they got angry at you and..." Batman trailed off.

"They told me I cold either help them out or that would extract the information some other way. I laughed in their face, and then…."

"And then what?"

Croc hesitated. "This is the part you're not going to believe." He hesitated again. "I swung at one of them and…"

"And?" Batman pressed.

"His face changed."

Croc sounded genuinely puzzled. This was nothing new, Croc wasn't exactly the brightest bulb, but Batman thought that this attitude had less to do with his intellect than with what he had seen. "How did it change?" Batman asked.

"His eyes changed color. They turned yellow. There was these ridges that appeared on the edge of his nose, and his teeth… I don't get how he managed that…"

"What happened to them, Croc?"

"They changed… they looked like mine."

Batman considered this. "You're not trying to tell me that this criminal grew fangs, are you?"

Croc was simultaneously slouching in his chair but sticking to his guns. "I told you that you wouldn't believe me."

At this point, Batman normally would have told Croc that he was tired of his crap, exit the room and leave him to his date with the court, and then with the needle.

Two things, however, stopped him. The first was the fact that Croc did not have the kind of imagination or intellect that could have made this kind of story up. There was a possibility that he knew the details of the vampire murders and was improvising from that but again he didn't think that this hood with muscles and teeth had the ability to imagine quite that much.

The second were the wounds on Croc's body. He had fought Croc many times, and though he had managed to come out victorious most of the time, he had never been able to do a great deal to Croc physically. It took a lot of power and placement to manage to bruise Croc, and he didn't think that there were more than a hundred people in the world who could do that kind of damage.

So, if it wasn't a person who had done this kind of damage then who…?

Batman was quiet for so long that even Croc had the nerve to break the silence. "What are you going to do?"

Batman maintained his silence for a while longer. Finally he turned to Croc. "Call in the guard outside. Tell him that you have a statement to make. Tell him exactly what you said…"

"I tell him that the feds will be… "Croc started.

Batman fixed him with a dark stare. _"Exactly _what you told me, Croc. If you that, I'll make sure D.A. doesn't ask for the death penalty."

"You have that kind of influence?" said Croc incredulously.

"You'd be surprised." Batman said as he walked to the outside door and rapped on it.

When the guard entered the room, Batman was gone.

Gordon's phone rang. He sighed, hoping it wasn't the mayor asking if there had been any breaks in either set of murders.

He picked up the phone. "This is Gordon."

There was a momentary silence. "I just had a talk with Croc." The voice on the other end spoke with authority.

Gordon was surprised; in the years that he had known Batman he didn't think that _he_ had ever called him. "Did he give you aything?"

There was a pause. "In a few minutes one of the guards is going to tell you he has a statement from Croc. After you read it, call the district attorney. Make him take the death penalty off of the table."

Gordon forgot who he was talking with for a second. "You're kidding, right? The DA wants him tried for seven counts of first-degree murder. He's not going to let that happen!"

"Croc didn't commit those murders, Jim."

"We're supposed to take his word for it? "

A pause. "I believe him."

Now Gordon was truly flummoxed. "What the hell did he tell you?" he asked.

Silence. "Make it happen, Jim. This is a lot bigger than just these murders."

"How much bi…" Gordon was cut off by the dial tone. He held on to the phone for a few seconds longer. "That son-of-a bitch always finds a way to do that to me." He put a hand to his forehead. "What the hell is happening to my city?"


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Batman knew that Commissioner Gordon would go a long way in putting trust in him. He also had a good idea of how much pressure Jim was under--- pressure from the mayor, the DA's office and from the citizens of Gotham. He would no doubt step up and make sure that Croc got the deal that Batman had argued for. But he was going to want answers--- answers that Batman wasn't sure he could give.

Because of his years of being the Batman, he knew Gotham inside and out. And, for the past two months, he had been getting the idea that something was dreadfully wrong in Gotham-- a wrongness that went deeper than the vampire-style killings and gangland slayings. Gotham was a very dark place normally, but over the past few months it had been subtly but surely becoming even more sinister.

Part of it was the behavior of the criminal element. He knew that much of the illegal activity took place in spite of the local criminals' fear of him. The average criminal (arch-villains and crime bosses aside) was not very bright and he knew many of them thought that in a face to face showdown, they could 'take down' the Batman. The fact that he had managed to stop hundreds of similarly minded individuals did little to dispel this idea from their minds. Criminals feared him, yes, but only a few were paralyzed by that fear.

Now something had changed in their attitude. Suddenly his presence was not the only one instilling fear in their hearts. This was a kind of fear that Batman had only seen occur because of the actions of criminals such as the Joker and Two-Face, but as both of them were currently residing in Arkham, it was unlikely that either were responsible. This in itself was a troubling sign. Who could impose this level of terror and yet remain off Batman's radar?

It wasn't only the criminals who were afraid. Dick had made contact with him a couple of times over the past months about a series of suspicious deaths among the homeless people that he as Nightwing was protecting. This too was a sign of alarm. He and Dick didn't have the warmest relationship anymore, mostly because of Dick's own attitude. The fact that he was setting this aside and telling him that there was a problem among the people he protected--- one that he couldn't handle himself--- was a sign of enormous concern.

Even Barbra, connected to the inner workings of Gotham by only her computer, had noticed the change. Some of the major players in Gotham, or at least those not decimated by the string of murders, were exposing themselves less and less, and relying mainly on encrypted e-mails to give orders to their employees.

This could simply be a matter of extra caution, but Barbra knew, as did Batman, that many of the old-school felons did not trust the 'net to get their message across. Something very serious was throwing the fear of God into these hardened offenders. But what was it?

Batman had been considering this question for a very long time. He had long since exhausted the limits of rational thought. Now, as he looked at the picture of the latest victim--- the one Croc had denied killing--- he began, reluctantly, to consider expanding his parameters.

At his heart, Batman was a detective. He believed rather firmly in Ockham's Razor--- the simplest solution is usually the most likely one. But he also believed in A. Conan Doyle's theory that when you eliminate all other possibilities, the one that remains, however improbable, is most likely the truth. Both theories were leading him to considering the truly improbable, or, to be more apt, paranormal.

There was an obvious answer to the reasoning behind these killings and, to a greater extent, the atmosphere of terror that was slowly spreading through Gotham. But to accept this possibility--- to embrace it--- was contrary to almost all of his instincts. He had faced some terrible darkness in his life, but he had the feeling that this one--- this one could be even blacker than he had ever explored.

"Master Bruce?"

The acoustics of the Batcave made it difficult to judge the distance of voices. Nevertheless, the Batman knew without looking that the voice of his loyal manservant, Alfred, was coming from less than twenty feet away.

"Master Bruce, I realize that the lateness of your hours makes it difficult to manage even one square meal a day but when I bring you food, it would be nice to see a token effort made. Having seen that the fork and knife have been used would be appreciated."

With the kind of guilt that only Alfred could inspire, Bruce realized that he had not touched the steak that Alfred had brought him an hour earlier. "I'm sorry. It's just that given the way things are in Gotham, it's hard to tear myself away from the problem."

"I realize that there are great troubles in our fair city." Alfred's voice now held a genuine level of concern.

"And I realize the path that you have chosen calls for an enormous effort. But one can not let these things overtake you. You know your limits far better than I ever could, but should be able to know by now that you do not carry this burden alone."

"I know that. Tim and Dick are busy patrolling the city tonight, while I try to work on figuring out who committed these murders." Bruce gave a sigh. "Though I'm not sure I'm doing much good."

"I'm sure you underestimate yourself, Master Bruce."

"I've been to these crime scenes a dozen times. I've looked at these morgue reports for hours on end. I've studied these crime scene photographs from almost every angle." Bruce punched some buttons. "To be honest I'm not even sure what I'm looking for anymore."

"I find it very hard to believe that someone of your…" By now Alfred had walked all the way over to the computer. Suddenly, he fell silent as he got a good look at the picture on it--- a close up on the dead mans face.

Bruce turned to look at Alfred. What he saw disturbed him a great deal. His manservant had seen a great many terrible things over his years, but very little seemed to scare him. Part of this had to do with his experiences, and part of it was simply his nature. Put them together, and Alfred Pennyworth could be almost as stoic as he was. It therefore took Bruce more than a few moments to realize the nature of his expression—a mixture of shock and memory.

"Are you all right, Alfred?" he asked gently.

The sound of his voice stirred the older man. "I--- I'm sorry, Master Bruce."

Picking his words carefully, Bruce asked his next question. "What's the matter? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Alfred hesitated for a few seconds before responding. "Not quite. But you're not that far off."

"What do you mean?"

Alfred collected himself. "I'm--- I'm at a bit of a loss, sir. But I'm almost positive I've seen these marks before."

"Where?" asked Batman.

Alfred wasn't used to telling stories, so it took him a short while to focus. Finally, he spoke: "You know that my family has always been in the business of service. My father was, and his father before him. But my uncle--- Herbert Pennyworth--- did not follow that path. When I and my family were still living in London he worked at another trade."

"What was that?"

"My uncle used to say that he was in the antiquities business. It seemed innocuous enough, but for some reason my father was never very happy about his being involved in it. He and Uncle Herbert would sometimes quarrel about it."

Alfred shook his head. "During the war, when the bombs were falling, my parents and I went to the countryside to get out of the path of the destruction. Herbert, however, refused to leave London. They had a royal row about it and my uncle blurted out that what he was dealing with made Hitler and the Nazis look like toy soldiers."

Bruce considered this, his eyes narrowing momentarily in thought. "Did he work in counterintelligence?"

"That's what I thought and I kept thinking it until I was nine." Alfred put his hand to his chin. "It was a year before my parents and I came to America. Uncle Herbert came to our home after he went on a business trip to Hungary. He said that he had bought some rare books from sources in the Carpathian Mountains. I was curious but he didn't let us look at them." He paused. "Then, later that evening, after supper, I was excused from the table and went into the spare bedroom where he was spending the night."

"You really wanted to look at the books, didn't you, old friend?" Bruce was having a difficult time imagining his loyal servant as a mere boy, let alone a disobedient one.

Alfred nodded. "One was lying on the top of his briefcase. I opened it and gingerly looked through it. It was disappointing because it was all in a language I couldn't make heads nor tails of. However, it was illustrated, and eventually I came to one particular drawing."

"What was in it?"

"It was the picture of a man's head, but his face was---wrong. His eyes were closer together, there were lines at the bridge of his nose and his teeth were--- they were sharpened." Alfred seemed to be shivering at the mere memory.

"And, at the base of the man's neck were two puncture marks. The same kind of markings that yourself and the Gotham Police have noticed." Alfred pointed to the picture of the dead man's neck. "The caption was just one word. And, even though it made no sense to me, I have never forgotten it."

Batman thought that he knew the word but he needed to hear Alfred say it. He needed someone else to confirm he wasn't crazy. "What was the word?" he asked.

"'Nosferatu.'"

Bruce took a deep breath. He knew that the leap he was about to make was based on a nearly fifty-five year old memory from what could have just been an illustration from a book of old European folklore. Certainly, if the Commissioner had heard what he was basing his decision on, despite years of working together, he'd probably think that the Batman had gone mad. He needed help from a different source, and there was only way to get it.

"Alfred, do you remember the name of the company your uncle worked for?"

Alfred nodded. "It was called the Watcher's Society."

"And they operated out of London?"

"Yes, sir."

Bruce walked over to the keyboard of his supercomputer and leaned over to it, opening the system's main search engine – an engine that had access to more information than some people saw in their entire lifetimes.

He typed in the term "Watchers' Society", and noted in a separate box that any reference found to both words, together, was to be cross-referenced with London, England as a location. A moment later, he punched the search button.

Bruce/Batman wasn't entirely sure what he had expected to find when he looked at the first hit, but the story in the London Times was not an entirely unexpected one. The Batman was stoic when he saw the headline; Alfred was not.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed.

The headline read, "BOMB DESTROYS CENTURIES OLD GENTLEMAN'S CLUB; POLICE SUSPECT TERRORISM. Under that was a picture of what clearly had been a giant edifice, but was now only so much rubble.

The story that followed was even more baffling. It said that on the afternoon of November 26, 2002, a giant explosion had ripped through the headquarters of an organization known as The Watcher's Society. The blast had been so sizable that the glass in the windows of every building within a two block radius had shattered.

From then on, however, the details became very unclear. The paper revealed that the building had been an institution of the City of London as far back as Elizabeth I, yet there were no mention of any of the members' names, or what exactly the Watcher's Society had done in all that time. Though there were elements of the crime that led the London police to suspect an act of terror, there was no information as to why terrorists would target such a place or what there was worth their trouble to destroy.

Batman was extremely good at reading between the lines, and he could tell that this story had been severely adapted. The writers--- and probably the editors--- had done some creative work to make this story seem less important than it really had been. He knew he should follow it up, but as it had less bearing on the current situation than was important, he decided to move on.

He turned to his butler. "Alfred, did you have any idea that this had happened?"

By now Alfred had regained his composure. "No sir. Uncle Herbert died nearly twenty years ago. His children went on to other professions. I'd almost entirely lost track of the Watchers."

The computer had been scrolling down the other hits. "Someone clearly hasn't." Batman said grimly as he looked down at the screen.

Alfred looked and though he maintained his composure, he was clearly shocked by what he was seeing. "Branches of the Society all over the world --- Nairobi, Budapest, Manila, --- all of them destroyed." He shook his head. "How on earth did no one else make the connection?"

"Somebody was going to an awful lot of trouble to make sure that no one this society existed in the first place." said Batman as he scanned through. "The fact that these people were Watchers in the first place is buried after any discussion of the explosions. I think someone in a position of power was making sure that no one connected the dots. "

"Who, though, Master Bruce, could do such a thing?"

Batman shook his head. "I'm not entirely certain yet, Alfred."

Alfred read the dates on the stories. A moment later, he spoke. "All of these incidents took place more than a year ago." He looked up. "Do you think possible that whoever it was who committed these bombings…" he hesitated a moment before he continued, "…finished the job?"

"I can't be certain of that either, Alfred. This is all the information that is on public record. To find more, we're going to have to explore some less-traveled avenues. It's a good thing we have an expert in the field."

He pressed a key, a signal immediately sent to Oracle's main system to contact him.

A minute later, Barbra Gordon's image appeared on another screen. "What is it, Bruce?" she asked.

"Barbara, I think I have a lead on whoever may be behind everything that's been going wrong in the city over the past two months." Batman said without preamble.

Barbara nodded. "I'm listening."

"What would you say if I told you that I believe vampires are responsible for every one of the recent murders?" He paused a second. "And not only for the random ones, but all of the killings that have taken place in the Gotham underworld?"

Barbara considered this for over a minute before responding. "If it was anyone else, I would tell them they were crazy." she finally said.

"I'm having trouble believing it myself, Barbara." Batman admitted. "But I've recently gotten some information that makes me believe it is possible. Vampires do exist. If you can get your mind around that concept, believing the rest isn't that difficult."

Barbara paused before answering. "You know, we may not be the only ones who are thinking this way." she said. "Over the past couple of weeks I've been receiving on-line communications from someone who's asking the right questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"A good number of questions about the murders. I was asked if bodies have been disappearing from the morgue, if there had been a rise in grave robbing." She shrugged a shoulder. "That sort of thing."

Suddenly the Bat had his full attention on Barbara. "Who's been asking?"

"I honestly don't know, Bruce." She admitted. "When his questions started sounding hinky I tried to pin down his interest in this. Guy cut me off cold. I've spent quite a bit time trying to track him down, but it appears he's very skilled at using high-level encryption and he has a very strong firewall."

This disturbed the Batman more than a little. Barbara was one of the most expert computer specialists he knew. If she was having trouble pinning this guy down… "What do you know?"

"Just that he used the screen name 'Lord of the Keys' and he's operating out of Los Angeles."

"Well maybe I can use the computer in the cave to do some back checking of my own." Batman said. "Anyway, that's only part of the reason that I called you. I may have another lead that I could use your help running down."

Now Barbara gave him her full attention. "Name it."

"I need you to try and track down an organization known as the Watcher's Society. I have intel that tells me they might know more on how to handle this problem."

"'Watcher's Society' All right. Let me see if I can get anything right away." Barbra moved over to her computer and began doing some typing of her own.

Two minutes later she came back on the screen. "All right, this is just getting creepy." she said without foreword.

"What?"

" When I typed in 'Watcher's Society' I found this listing that had the name Watcher's Society in it. Only it says that they've changed their name."

"To what?" asked Batman.

"Angel-Slayer Inc.' And do you know where their central office is located?"

"London?"

"No. Los Angeles."

Batman made the connection. "That's how your source knew what he was looking for." He thought for a second. "Is LA the only city that it operates out of?"

Barbara did some more typing. "No, according to this they have offices all over the country—Cleveland, New Orleans, east Texas—"

"What about here?'

"According to this it there's a note. 'East Coast Offices opening."

"When?"

Barbara did some more typing. "According to the backtrail, a week ago."

"How close is this office?"

"Less than ten miles away." Barbara looked at Batman. "Now that we know where they are what do you think we should do, Bruce?"

An excellent question. Batman knew that his reluctance to call in for help had gotten him--- and by extension Gotham—- in serious trouble in the past. But this wasn't a matter of calling in someone like Tim or Dick. This appeared to be completely outside help and Bruce wasn't sure how much he would be willing to trust total strangers.

Then again, if he was right about his basic assumption, the current situation _was _above and beyond anything that he had ever dealt with before. And if Batman went in nearly blind there was an excellent chance that he could end up dead or…

_Or._ Now there was a word with frightening possibilities. Until he had nearly been totally paralyzed by the monstrous Bane a few years ago, the idea of a 'fate worse than death' had never crossed his mind. Now he knew that there definitely were such things. And if he was seriously considering this possibility, there was something even worse than that. Something… unthinkable

"Batman? You still there?"

With a shock Bruce realized that he had allowed his mind to go of on a tangent, something that he never did.

"Sorry. It's just… this is a very thorny situation. I'm not sure how to proceed." he said quickly.

"Maybe you shouldn't."

That got Batman's attention in a hurry. "Barbara, what do you mean?"

"It's going to be very tough selling my father on the idea that vampires are killing people, much less taking key positions in organized crime." Barbara spoke as gently as she could manage. "The idea that we can't handle it ourselves---" She gave a sigh. "That will probably bother him more than the fact that the undead are setting down roots here."

"Granted that's true" asked Batman "how are we supposed to do this? There isn't any right way to explain what the hell's going on and there's no way to show him without the risk of more people dying."

"I know." admitted Barbara. "That's why we should both talk with him. Try and sell him that this is a problem that is well beyond our ken and that there are people who might be able to explain what the hell is going on here."

"And then?'

"Then I make contact with them. Get an idea if they know what they're doing. It will be a lot easier for him to buy this if he thinks that it came from me then if it comes from you alone."

Normally Batman would have disputed the logic in Barbara's scenario as well as the idea that he wasn't qualified to handle this himself. However, the reality was this potential new threat unsettled him more than he was willing to let on. It wasn't that he was afraid of the possibility of vampires in his city; it was that they represented a force he had no experience dealing with. This was going to call for a whole new plan in handling this threat and he needed time to prepare his own response.

"All right." Bruce agreed. "Talk to the people at this Angel-Slayer and find out if they're on the level. I you think that they are, arrange for me to make contact with them on a secure line."

"Sure."

"I'll contact Tim and tell him what's going on. You get in contact with Dick—though if what we think is happening has been going on for awhile, he may already have his suspicions." Batman got to his feet. "I'm going to do some research. Try and figure out the weaknesses these creatures have."

"All right." Barbara hesitated. "Is it all right that I hope that whoever's in charge at Angel-Slayer laughs me right out of their office?"

"That would make things easier." Batman said. "But our job is not about doing the easy thing."

"I know." There was a long silence that could have stood for many things. Finally Barbara said: "Oracle out."

Batman got to his feet preparing himself for both of the difficult jobs that lay ahead of him.

And readying himself for the idea that there was something in the darkness more frightening than him.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Advisory: This chapter is rated M for scenes of violence and very dirty language. Don't say you weren't warned

Officer Rosa Montoya had known that for the past few weeks, something strange had been going on in Gotham City.

No, check that--- something stranger than the usual for Gotham. With all of the public 'vampire' style murders and the more secretive underworld killings that had been taking place, it was no secret that citizens on both sides of the law were extremely nervous about being out on the streets.

So when her car was radioed on the signs of some kind of gang fighting just south of Crime Alley, Montoya was almost relieved to find her squad car being called in on something she and her partner Officer Riggs could handle.

Unfortunately, it had soon become clear that her assumption was a mistaken one. For one thing, by the time they got where they had been called to go, any violence was clearly over. Only this time, instead of coming to a near empty street, Montoya and Riggs found that there were several people scattered on the sidewalk.

"What the hell happened here?" asked Riggs. Montoya knew the question was a rhetorical one, but in her mind, she was asking it herself. What was going on?

Both asked it again of themselves as they surveyed the scene – this made no sense. There were five of them –gang members, and they had been beaten badly, but all of them were still alive. That was what made no sense. A gang member on the concrete in Crime Alley was a dead gang member, and those still living didn't stick around to wait for the cops unless they wanted to get arrested.

The situation had gotten even stranger as Montoya began to approach the five. The first was unconscious – he had had the shit kicked out of him. That was, however, not the reason he was still in the street. Someone had trussed him up like a cow. She had never seen any of the gangs do that – beat their opponents nearly to death, yeah, but leave them tied down? It would never happen.

"Better call for an ambulance," Montoya yelled over to her partner.

"We're gonna need more than one." Riggs said as he picked up his walkie-talkie.

The next one she saw was still awake, and he was moaning in pain. He was a big, well-built man, with tattoos on both of his forearms – skulls. He didn't look like the type that could be pinned down by standard rope, but all his wriggling around was doing was tightening the knots even further.

Montoya kneeled down beside him. "If I untie you, are you going to behave?" she asked.

"Lady," the thug answered, breathing hard, "does it look like I have enough left to try to piss you off?"

Montoya began to untie him, keeping her revolver well out of the reach of this would-be gang banger.

"You have a name?" Montoya asked, not expecting a response.

She was, therefore, surprised when she got one. "Don Byrnes." he said tiredly.

"And what did you do to deserve this?" she asked, managing to keep the curiosity out of her voice.

"Not a fucking thing, lady." Byrnes managed to turn his head a little to his left. "In fact, now that you're here, I want report a case of assault and battery!"

This, at least, sounded a little more like the average crook. She decided to play it out after a moment's thought. "Against who, Mr. Byrnes?" She asked, finally managing to open the knot binding his wrists.

"Fuck if I know." Byrnes was starting to sound pissed.

"Me and my boys were just waiting for the next bus to come. Then this strange skanky chick walks up to us. She asks us how tough we are."

"Yeah… And?"

"Marcellus here says she's got to be really fucking thick to ask a question like that." She had finally untied the last of the knots, and he was able to sit up and face her, rubbing his wrists just above the rope burns. "It was a goddamn joke, but that stupid bitch took it personally. Next thing I know Marcellus's lying face down on the ground and she's kicking him in the stomach."

"Uh-huh." This guy was lying, and Montoya didn't bother hiding her disbelief as she asked her next question. "And which one of your friends is Marcellus?"

Brian pointed past Montoya to a black, bald-headed man who was on the concrete ten feet away. Riggs had untied him, but he was still having trouble getting to his feet, a gash on his forehead, his eyes still somewhat glazed over. "That's him." Byrnes shook his head. "Bitch probably broke a few of his ribs."

"And my heart bleeds for him," said Montoya sarcastically. "So, after this woman knocks you down, she starts trashing the rest of your gang?"

Byrnes shifted his eyes away from her. "Hey, the skank was out of her fucking mind, Lady!" He took a breath.

"She starts swinging at Nick, she nails him. Well, now all the fuck any of us wanted to do was get away from Layla Ali. We started running, and that bitch just went medieval on our asses." Byrnes looked his hand. "Then she starts tying us up like we were in one of those sex clubs. Only after she finished, she takes off without doin' a thing."

Montoya had now taken all she could. "Mr. Byrnes, do I strike you as an idiot?" she said, keeping her voice calm.

"Look, lady—"Byrnes started.

"It's _Officer _lady, asswipe." Montoya yanked the hoodlum to his feet. "You expect me to believe that five strong, _manly_ men such as yourselves were standing around, minding your own business when this mystery lady walks up to you and starts knocking you around like tin cans?"

"La--- Officer, it's the truth!"

"First of all, you weren't doing nothing." She held out a hand, showing what she had found in the pockets of his jacket when she had been untying him – a crack pipe and a switchblade. "You were either using drugs or waiting here to buy some. And don't tell me that you were using this---"she picked up the knife--- "to clean your fingernails."

Byrnes considered his options. "Okay, maybe we weren't just waiting around doin' nothing. But that don't give some chick the right to just knock us around. Stupid bitch nearly broke my arm!"

She took a good look at him, now that he was on his feet. One of his arms was, indeed, hanging at an awkward angle, and it looked like one of the bones was pressing against the underside of his skin – it was obviously cracked. This did not, however, change her opinion a single iota.

"Well, you have been hurt, and we're gonna get you an ambulance just 'cause we're nice people, us Police Officers... but, after you get looked at, we're going to be taking a ride downtown, so you might well want to consider changing your story."

"To what? I got beat up by a girl and now I'm about to be hauled off to the slammer! How can I possibly change this story to make things any worse?"

"I don't know, but that's your problem. Not mine."

By now the ambulance had arrived. Montoya began to walk Byrnes over to it. When she reached it, the doors were open, and the paramedics were rushing toward one of Byrnes' associates – one that Riggs was standing over. Whoever had done this had done a very good job of it – the sidewalk had blood spattered all over it.

"Not very pretty, is it?" said Riggs.

"I don't know... Red's a nice color." Montoya shifted her attention fully to her partner. "How bad are the others?"

"Not that serious. A few broken bones, a couple of scalp wounds." Riggs said. "You ask me, their egos took a much worse beating than they did."

Montoya wasn't sure that was true, but she decided to let it pass. "What story did they tell?" she asked.

"Same one. Some big bad momma whaled the tar out of them while they were standing around doing nothing." Riggs thought for a moment. "And that is weird enough."

"What do you mean?" asked Montoya.

"How often do a bunch of Skulls tell exactly the same story? I don't mean the 'doing nothing' part. How often would a bunch of them say the same person did it?"

"A criminal lying; I am shocked and awed." Montoya answered sarcastically.

"They generally know better than to all tell the same story, Montoya. They know that we'll call them on it." Riggs looked around. "Which brings up the next question: who really did this?"

"You don't think this was a gang thing, then."

"How many gangs do you know that beat people to a pulp, then tie them up and leave them alive?" asked Riggs.

She considered that. "There weren't any other people on the street. Maybe we should start canvassing the neighborhood… see if someone saw what happened."

"Or you could just ask me."

Montoya and Riggs spun around. Standing behind them was a small, dark haired woman.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Riggs nearly yelled.

"Hey, I've been standing in that alley for the last half-hour." the woman said. "I can't help it if you didn't see me."

"Okay, okay." said Montoya. "Did you see what happened here tonight?"

The strange woman gave a small smile. "In a manner of speaking, yeah, I did."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Riggs.

"The people who beat those morons up?" the strange woman said, still smiling. "They were me."

Neither officer reacted to that statement, but both felt like smiling. She was scarcely more than a teenager – just over twenty one, if that old. Furthermore, she was barely five-six, and if she weighed a hundred pounds when she was soaking wet, she was lucky. The idea of her beating up Byrnes or one of his friends was ludicrous. The idea of her beating all five to the ground and tying them up was even more ridiculous.

"Forgive me if I'm a little skeptical," Montoya began "Miss---"

"That's her! That's the crazy bitch that beat the shit out of me!" Byrnes hadn't been loaded on to the ambulance yet. "You're gonna pay for this, you skanky slut! I'll fucking rip your arms off!"

Montoya turned her attention back toward the woman, who acted as if she hadn't heard anything. "Excuse me, Miss…" she trailed off.

"Call me Faith." the girl said.

"Ma'am, we're going to have to ask you to come down to the stationhouse with us." Riggs said calmly.

Faith shrugged. "All right. But I'm going to need to make a phone call as soon as I get to the station." She began walking to the officers. "That alright?"

"That would be just fine." said Montoya. "I should warn you---"

"I know, I have the right to remain silent, anything I can say can be used against me in a court of law---"

"You're familiar with procedure, then." said Riggs.

The dark-haired woman gave a small smile. "You have no idea how well I know it."

And that was how Faith introduced herself to the Gotham City PD.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Jim Gordon looked through the one way glass at the woman in the interrogation room. He wasn't alone. Three officers and two detectives were keeping their eyes on her. It seemed that half the cops in the precinct had been in to at least have a look at this dark-haired lady who had supposedly managed to take down five of the West End Boys by hand--- a feat which bordered on water-into-wine as one of the more astounding things Gordon had ever heard of.

"How old is she?" asked Detective Levinson. "Nineteen, twenty?"

"She says she's twenty-two." answered Montoya.

There was no answer but silence from Gordon.

"How the hell did she pull this off?" asked Levinson again

That was an excellent question. Gordon had many of those that he wanted to pose to this Faith individual. The fact that he hadn't already was reason number 845 that he didn't like her.

Twenty minutes after voluntarily walking into the Nineteenth Precint with Officers Montoya and Riggs, Faith--- if that was her real name—had be causing all kinds of stir. The first thing that she had done was make a phone call.

Fifteen minutes after that, three attorneys in suits had shown up. Ten minutes after _that_ Gordon had gotten a phone call from the Mayor telling him to get the hell over to the Nineteenth's building. Nor was he the only person to receive a phone call. In the past three hours, three watch commanders, two ADA's, two councilmen and an aide to the Governor had all made visits to make certain that this woman was handled properly, whoever she was.

He hadn't been allowed anywhere near her, and by the time the attorneys had finished, they had somehow made it happen that this woman who had voluntarily admitted her guilt on five first-degree assault charges was totally immune from prosecution of any kind.

Gordon didn't think that even a Congressman had this kind of pull, much less a girl who apparently hadn't graduated college. He demanded two of his detectives do a background check on her. What they found bothered Gordon even more than what the woman had managed to pull off already.

For starters, there was no criminal record for anyone by the name of Faith Wollenchuk. Wollenchuk was her supposed last name. In fact, the only record of anyone by that name was a birth certificate on file in Boston.

The detectives had had more luck tracking down her fingerprints. She _did_ have a criminal record – of a sort. In February of 1999, a woman named Faith Wollencheck had been taken in to custody on charges of armed robbery, as well as the assault of a police officer in some town called Sunnydale. Three months later, her name had appeared again, this time on a police blotter – she had been a suspect in the stabbing death of Allan Finch, the town's deputy mayor.

The problem his detectives were having was that all of the records were computer entries. When they had attempted to contact the Sunnydale police, they had been unable to do so. In fact, they had discovered that the entire town had disappeared without a trace. There was no physical evidence to verify that any of the crimes she had been accused of had ever even taken place.

Things had become even stranger when they had tried to find out if she had spent any time behind bars. They had found a criminal, using the name 'Faith' as her only identification, had been in a prison in Los Angels from the spring of 2000 until the February of 2003.

The real problem had come when they tried to find out what the charges against her had been. The detectives had contacted the LAPD and had them check their records, only to discover that they had been expunged. That wasn't unheard of, but the only people he had ever heard of having their records 'wiped clean' were the relatives of business CEO's and politicians. This Faith character didn't look like she ran in their circles.

How did this Faith have that kind of pull? And, more importantly, what was she doing in Gotham?

Gordon knew that with what was going on in Gotham City's underworld, this incident was not the kind of thing that he needed to occupy his time. But there had been a lot of old troublemakers in Gotham recently, and if there were any new ones, he wanted to stop them _now,_ before they got started

ADA Stone chose that moment to walk in the room. "Commissioner."

"What is it, Ben?" he asked wearily.

"She wants to talk with you."

"Well, I'm so glad she has deemed me a person worthy of her time and energy." said Gordon sarcastically. "I don't have to make an appointment?"

Stone looked more than just a little annoyed. "Jim, don't shoot the messenger. I'm sorry that they put you through all this bullshit but…" He trailed off.

"But what, Ben?" said Gordon a bit more quietly.

"This woman has pull. I don't know who the person is that's pulling the strings for her, but this is coming from somebody with a lot of money and power. The mayor, the governor, hell, it could even be someone from out of state. This girl has a very important guardian angel."

Gordon hesitated a moment, then walked towards the door. "You want back-up, boss?" asked Montoya.

Gordon gave a small smile. "I can take care of myself, Officer, but thank you."

Gordon walked out of the room with Stone straggling behind him. "Ben, what do you think of this girl? Aside from the hullabaloo?"

"Off the record?" Gordon nodded. "There's something really wrong with her. You saw her record; somebody has gone to a great deal of trouble to clean up her past. That probably means that she's has committed at least one Class A felony."

Gordon paused. "You think she's killed someone?" he said as he turned to face Stone.

"You're a better judge of that then I am, Jim. But given her attitude, it certainly wouldn't surprise me."

Now came the real question. "Why did she insist on talking to me?" Gordon asked.

"All she said was that it was something that you and _only_ you could hear."

An unpleasant picture was beginning to form in Gordon's head. His daughter had told him stories the last time he had spoken with her--- stories he didn't want to believe, but that he could not ignore. He wasn't sure that he wanted to hear whatever it was she had to say, but he knew he had no choice.

"All right." He said to the ADA. "I'll take it from here." Gordon put his hand on the doorknob, and then hesitated. "One more thing. There's no way we're going to be able to keep this quiet for long. However I'd like to try to for as long as possible, so…"

"I'll do my best on my end. What about you?"

Gordon turned around. "I trust my people."

"All of them?"

Gordon thought that he knew what Stone was insinuating, but he couldn't say that he trusted Batman as much as anyone on his force, if not more. So he muttered a curt "Just see to it," and opened the door in to the interrogation room.

The girl turned to face him as he entered. He had gotten a vague impression of this Faith from the fishbowl, and now he quickly added a few others. For one thing, it was now well past three in the morning, yet she didn't look tired. This in itself meant nothing--- most of the people Gordon knew kept late hours--- but there was more to it than that. This girl was more than alert. She looked wound up as if she was ready to spring into action at the slightest gesture. Gordon knew someone else who was like that, too.

There was something else about her--- her eyes. They didn't look like any eyes a twenty-two year old girl should have. They looked as if they belonged on a woman more than twice that age. They were very world weary.

He realized a moment later where else he had seen eyes like that--- when he looked in the mirror. They were the eyes of anyone, cop or criminal, ghetto dweller or homeless person--- who had seen the absolute worse that the world had to offer. He had seen similar looks on child prostitutes and twelve-year old drug dealers, but it was still something that he hated seeing in someone who was younger than he was.

"Feeling comfortable, Miss Wollenchuk?" he said as he walked to the table.

"Wollenchuk is my mother's name, Commissioner. Mine has been Faith all my life." The girl sounded serious.

"Is there anything that I can get you, Faith?" Gordon was now speaking sardonically. " Coffee, soda, Denver omelet?"

"No thank you Commissioner. " Faith gave a hint of a smile. "I'm five by five."

"You should be," Gordon said calmly "considering that you've turned this precinct into your living room."

Faith sighed. "I'm very sorry about that. This whole thing was a lot more complicated than I wanted it to be."

"Yet you did it anyway."

Faith shrugged. "I needed to get in touch with you, and I didn't know a better way to it."  
Gordon considered this. "You could have made an appointment with me."

"I didn't think that you would speak to someone whose only credentials were a rap sheet."

"So you thought a five-body memo would be more discreet?"

Faith actually smiled at that. "By the standards of some people I know, it was barely a blip on the radar, Commisioner."

"Could we come to the point?" said Gordon. "Who are you, really, and what are you doing in my city?"

"Alright. Like I said before, my name is Faith. And the reason I'm here, Commissioner, is because your city has a problem."

"This is a big city, Mis--- Faith. You're going to have to be a bit more specific."

Faith exhaled. "Alright. Since it appears you need things spelled out, here it is. V-A-M-P-I-R-E."

Even though Barbara had done as much as say that this was what had been going on, actually hearing the word used made a small chill run up his spine. He tried to deflect it.

"Vampire? What are we taking about? Bela Lugosi or Christopher Lee?"

Faith gave a small laugh. "I've spent ten seconds on the subject and you're already making jokes."

His voice was incredulous. "Joke? Joke? You're saying vampires are responsible for half the crime in this city and you expect me to take you seriously"

"Is that more difficult to accept than a woman who has the power to control plants?" Faith was bearing down. "Or a man being able to survive with a body temp maxing out at zero degrees?"

Her point was valid. "All right, let us say that I accept your argument. How exactly am I supposed to solve this? Arm my detectives with crosses and holy water?"

Faith nodded. "That's actually a pretty good idea. I wonder why the cops in Sunnydale never thought of that."

Gordon saw an opening.

"Sunnydale? That would be the down where you killed the deputy mayor?" Faith looked away from him for the first time since he had entered the room. "I take it that's a yes, then?"

"It was an accident, Commissioner… one that I am deeply sorry for." Faith said calmly.

"And did you pay for this accident?" Gordon needed to know the limits of this woman.

"If I were a man, I'd ask why you were breaking my balls over this."

"Vampires don't fall under the purvey of my office Faith, at least not yet. Murderers do."

"You want the truth? Fine." Her voice was flat as she stared at him. "Yes, I killed a man. Yes, I spent some time in prison. It doesn't change the fact that there are vampires in your town, Commissioner and that they need to be stopped."

"And you are the solution to our problem."

"I'm part of it, yes."

Gordon looked at her. "How is that?"

"I'm a Slayer."

Gordon considered this, walked over to the other side of the room to make sure that the microphones in the room were off, and then turned around. "How does that help me?"

Faith sighed. "God, I should have listened to Wesley when he tried to explain this." She rubbed her hand over her face. "Okay. 'Into every generation a girl is born. She will stand against the vampires, the demons and the forces of darkness. She is the Slayer.'" She came to a stop. "Man, those English are pompous."

"So I take it you are that Slayer?"

"One of them."

Gordon looked at her. "There's more than one?"

"Do we really have to go into this?" She was starting to sound the slightest bit exasperated.

"If I have to have someone fighting these--- things, I'd prefer someone who wasn't a felon."

Now Faith really sounded pissed. "Christ, could you stop being a cop a second?"

"A cop is what I am, Miss Wollenchuk. And let me tell you something. I don't know how you have so much pull, and for the moment I don't care. This is my city. My people take criminals off the streets; we don't put them back on them."

"And if I remember the papers, you're really doing a bang-up job of it."

"Don't get—" Gordon started.

"All right, I'm sorry. That was over the line." Faith stood up slowly. "Look… I realize that you have a difficult job, and these vampires are making it harder. You're obviously very good at your job, I'm very good at mine. You may not want me here but I can help you."

Gordon mulled over what she was saying--- the whole package. By itself, it was the story of a lunatic. Combined with what Barbara had told him, what he had seen at the morgue and the general word on the street--- well, it was still crazy, but it was easier to believe. But still, to consider this legitimate, to accept this woman's help--- it would be admitting the situation was out of control—

_Newsflash! The situation IS out of control!_, he thought to himself._ The city is just a few more attacks from erupting into full scale war. You need all the help that you can get!_

Yes, but _her_? Faith had already demonstrated that she was a firebrand under normal circumstances, and chances were she probably had a history of instability. To turn her loose on the underworld of Gotham could be like throwing gasoline on to a fire.

Gordon knew that he needed more time to make an unbiased decision but he also knew that he didn't have time to agonize over it. What it came down was that he was considering putting a vigilante on the streets. And there was only one other person that he could trust with that kind of responsibility.

"Get up Mi--- Faith." he said to her.

The dark-haired woman considered this for a moment and then got to her feet. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"We're going to meet the only person who I can trust to put a leash on you."

They were at the door when Faith stopped walking. "I don't like it when people try to rein me in."

"Well that's a shame Faith. Because the only way that I'm going to let you loose in the city is with some kind of supervision."

"I _have _supervision, Commissioner. I didn't come to Gotham alone."

"And where is this command and control?" Gordon demanded as they began walking down the hallway.

"One of them is at the Regency, setting up a base of operations." Faith paused. "I guess that you could call him my Watcher."

"He's the one who arranged for your legal counsel."

It wasn't a question.

"He knows some people," Faith admitted. "The other guy, he's been in the city the last couple of days, doing recon on some of the more dangerous parts of town."

"Is he going to cause trouble too?" asked Gordon.

Faith shook her head. "He can be quiet if he has to be."

Gordon considered this. "I'm not just letting your people keep an eye on you." he finally said.

"First of all, I wouldn't call them 'my people'." Now Faith sounded amused. "Second of all, I can't work with cops following me."

"That won't be a problem, because I'm not having any cops follow you."

"Then wh--- ohhhh." She smiled faintly "So I'm going to meet _him_, then."

"First, you're going to talk with my daughter, who I understand you know already. Then, if she considers it appropriate, she'll introduce to the other members of the crime-fighting world."

"And she'll take me to Batman?"

"No. He'll come to you." A very small, humorless smile briefly crossed Gordon's face. "That's how _he_ works."

"But I will meet him?" Faith seemed perfectly calm at what was about to happen.

Another humorless smile appeared on Gordon's face, this time for a little longer. "Oh, he's going to want to meet you."


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Faith had known that Commissioner Gordon was going to be a hard sell, even if the situation hadn't involved vampires. After all, asking a cop to trust a felon was something that happened never and the day after never. However, considering that the lines of communication had been open with Barbara Gordon, a.k.a. Oracle for a bit longer than expected, Faith had hoped that she would have a certain level of trust awaiting her.

However, she had underestimated Oracle's skills as a hacker. They were formidable enough that she had been able to find (even though Willow and Fred had done an exceptional job in burying it) Faith's complete criminal record. Finding out that she had spent the past three years in prison had not only made Barbara hostile, but it had pissed off her father all over again.

"Give me one reason that I shouldn't run you in for violating your parole," Gordon had spat.

Fortunately, Faith had been prepared for that statement. "First of all, as you know very well Commissioner, I have a legal team so skilled they make O.J.'s look like high schoolers. You might get me back in jail but I wouldn't be there for long." She paused for five seconds, making sure what she had said registered.

"Second, and more importantly, regardless of my time in the joint, this town still has a vampire problem, and I'm the only one who can fix it."

This, of course, was an outright lie and she knew that if either member of the Gordon family decided to call her on it, she could be in very big trouble.

For a long time, it had seemed that both of them were seriously considering this option. However, Barbara finally elected not to.

"That doesn't mean we're just going to turn you loose in Gotham." Barbara had said. "You're going to have to prove yourself to me and to the others before that."

Faith looked at Barbara. "My little performance in Crime Alley didn't convince you?" she said coolly.

Oracle had then gone quiet with a sad look on her face. "Anybody can tune up on a team of felons, Faith." She then exchanged a glance with her father that Faith didn't understand. "From what I'm told, it takes a hell of lot more to stake a vampire."

"So now I have to prove myself all over again?" Faith frowned. "Fine. Where and when?"

Which brought her to where she was now--- somewhere in the lower-class part of Gotham. According to Barbara, someone or something had been causing the homeless population to shrink--- and she knew the city well enough to know that this wasn't because of the compassion of its wealthier citizens. She thought that this was a symptom of the same problem.

Faith gave the girl extra points for her intellect, because she knew from her own experience that vampires loved to dine on the homeless. They were the perfect targets-- always present, less likely to put up a fight, easy to disguise yourself as, and the police never missed them.

There was still something bothering her, though. When Faith had asked Oracle if she was going to be 'performing' in front of her, she had replied that she would not. "Someone that I trust implicitly is going to be keeping his eye on you."

"Who?" Faith had asked.

Oracle had given her a look she couldn't quite read. "Don't worry. You'll know him when you see him."

So that was why at one o'clock in the morning, on a cold winter's night, that Faith was walking through what could politely be considered the slums of Gotham City looking for something suspicious. Unfortunately, at that hour in that section of the city, _everything_ looked suspicious. None of it was, however, related in any way to the undead.

Faith knew that, given the hour and where she was, she was going to find a vampire eventually, or one would find her. What she was more worried about was 1) that she would look bad in front of whoever it was Oracle had watching her and 2) that the vampires would become wise to her presence before she wanted them to.

She didn't think that her presence would scare off vamps--- in fact, it might even encourage them to reveal themselves in order to fight her. But, looking bad in front of Barbara Gordon could have ramifications beyond whether or not she stayed in Gotham City. They could affect how Angel-Slayer could actually work in a major city, whether or not they could handle major crisis.It might even---

Then she saw them. Standing within one of the more dingy-looking alleys in an already dingy part of the city were three people. Three people in shabby clothing-- and two of them were sneaking up on the third, who was much smaller than they were.

Only Faith was certain that the bigger two weren't people. She was sure of it before she even got a look at their faces. They were vampires, and it looked like they were about to feast on one of Gotham's tired and poor.

_Not tonight, boys and girls_. She thought to herself as she walked into the alley._ Time to rock and roll._

"Yo, long, tall and ugly." she said with just the right mix of defiance and calm.

One of them slowly turned. "You talkin' to me, bitch?"

Faith rolled her eyes. "You've been waiting a long time to use that one, haven't you?" she said. "Okay… I'll play along." She stepped forward, relaxed. "Well, I'm the only one here."

The vamp walked over to her. "I love it when my dinner is fresh." he said before going into his attack.

It became clear almost immediately that this vampire wasn't anywhere near the top of the heap in Gotham. In a matter of seconds, Faith had kicked his feet out from under him, slammed his head into a garbage can and threw the vamp in to the wall next to her, staking the vampire as he fell backwards.

Faith defeated its associate so rapidly that the second vamp barely had time to ready an attack. This one, however, was much tougher than the first had been. It was able to match her blow for blow, and seemed far more tenacious.

Faith's back was almost against the side of the alley until she managed to land a roundhouse kick to the vampire's the chest, causing it to fall back. It still managed, somehow, to kick at her kneecaps. She went partially down, but was back up on her feet in a flash. Three seconds later, she was in the vampire's face, and five seconds after that, it didn't have a face anymore

A voice suddenly sounded from seemingly nowhere. "I have to hand it to you… that was very impressive. I'd say your technique could be a bit neater, but that's a matter of individual style…"

Faith's vision and hearing were excellent, but it still took her several seconds to locate from where the voice was coming. It was from above - on the roof of the building to her left. She found it strange that she still couldn't see anyone… and a moment later she did. He was wearing very dark clothes - he might even be dressed only in black. Was it the…?

The figure then slid down one of the sewage pipes next to the exterior lighting of the building. As he grew closer, Faith got a better look at him. He was wearing black tights, a black shirt with a blue band on the front and the sleeves, and a black mask covering the top of his face.

By the time that he reached the ground, Faith was sure that this was _not _Batman. For one thing, he didn't have the bat insignia on his chest or a cloak around his shoulders both of which Andrew had said were key parts of the Caped Crusader's outfit. For another this man seemed younger than the Bat was reported to be.

When the figure in black and blue reached the ground, he immediately ran over to the man who would have been the vamp's victim had it not been for the presence of Faith. "You alright, Nathan?" he said.

The man--- Faith could now tell that he was stooped and at least in his fifties—looked up at the figure without any surprise. "I'll be alright. Thanks to this girl." He looked at her, then back at the man in black. "Friend of yours?"

"Not yet, no, but we'll see." The dark figure glanced at her again. "I have a feeling we're about to become real close." He turned his attention back to Nathan. "Can you get back to the shelter alone?"

The older man shifted his weight, lips squeezing together for a second as he thought about his answer. "I think so."

He began to walk away from the two of them. "Thanks again, miss. I appreciate it."

Faith was a little surprised--- she couldn't remember the last time that someone she had saved had thanked her. "Umm, you're welcome," she said calmly.

The costumed man saw the older one get across the street before he turned back to her. By then Faith thought that she had a pretty good idea who he was. "Let me take a guess," she said. "Oracle sent you."

"She didn't _send_ me, Miss... Faith, right?" The dark haired Slayer nodded. "She asked me to look out for someone while I did my job."

"So you're Nightwing, then?" Off his look of surprise, she gave a small smile. "I've been in town long enough to know who you are. You help protect the homeless people of Gotham City. Any particular reason you didn't choose to help him?"

"I wouldn't have let anything happen to Nathan if I thought that he was in any danger." Nightwing spoke calmly. "As you clearly demonstrated, he didn't need my help. Now… it's my turn to ask you a question."

_Here we go again, _Faith thought to herself. "Let me save you the trouble. The reason that there is no sign of those two is that they turned to dust. You see, that's what happens to vampires when you kill them."

"Vampires…" said Nightwing slowly.

"I'm not going to have to go through this with every crime fighter in Gotham, am I?" said Faith tiredly. "It was fun the first time, but it's getting really boring."

Nightwing walked a few steps closer. "Oracle filled me in on the situation. I've spent the last few days trying to keep the people here safe."

"_Them_ safe?" Faith spoke incredulously. "You're one of the people who's protecting the city. Isn't everybody under your watch?"

"That's _his_ job." He motioned toward the area outside the alley. "Protecting the people here is mine."

Faith sensed the defiance in his voice. "Oh great. You're not in some kind of pissing contest with Batman, are you?" she said.

"And what does that question have anything to do with what's happening here?" He was practically in her face, now.

"In these alleys, no. But the vampire problem in this city isn't limited strictly to the homeless." Faith lifted her arm to indicate the city. "Everyone, rich or poor, crook or legal is in danger from these things. I'm going to have to work with everybody and I don't need to get in the middle of a territory dispute. So I'll ask again," she leaned into Nightwing's face. "Can you work with Batman?"

For a moment she thought that she had gone too far, but then Nightwing looked away. "I've worked with him before. I can do it now. Good enough?"

Faith considered this before giving a small smile. "Five by five." She began walking out of the alley.

Nightwing walked beside her. "All right. You and I are going to go over what needs to be done to protect the people here. Then you're going to tell me what you know about these murders."

"And you'll take this to Batman?"

He gave a not very-happy grin. "He'll find out soon enough."

Faith didn't know what was or had been going on between Nightwing and Batman, but she figured that she was going to catch more flies with honey then with vinegar--- whatever that meant. "All right. Long story short, most of the lore on how to kill vampires is true. A stake---" she pulled out the one she'd just used "---through the heart will kill them. But it's got be precise, and its gotta go in hard."

"All right. What about crosses?"

"They'll burn the flesh of any vampire they touch. A bible will do the same thing, if you get really desperate. Do you know any priests?"

Nightwing nodded.

"Good. Get them to some kind of water supply. If one of them blesses it, then that should be enough to make it in to holy water. That works nearly as well as stakes at killing them."

"And what about garlic?"

Faith shook her head. "The whole garlic thing is a myth. Vamps don't like the smell, but it won't stop them from killing someone. Same thing with communion wafers."

"Mind if I ask a stupid question?" Faith nodded, and so Nightwing went on. "Do they really sleep during the day?"

Faith shook her head. "Most don't need much sleep. And only the old-school ones still sleep in coffins; most are happy with an ordinary bed."

"But sunlight will kill them?"

"Yeah, but only direct contact with it. They can still move around in the shadows, even during the day. The smart ones get around by negotiating any available space underground. You know the workings of the sewer system?"

"Pretty well, yes."

"Good. A lot of them are going to be working underground. You and your friends are going to be spending a lot of time down."

Nightwing seemed a bit surprised. "You don't intend to be doing the same?"

Faith considered his question, and then shook her head. "I'll be spending some time there but I'm not one for being subtle. I prefer to come right at them."

"A woman after my own heart." Nightwing seemed surprised that she had said what she had. An awkward silence filled the air before the hero changed the subject. "All right. What about these murders?"

Faith continued to study Nightwing for several seconds before she responded. "The ones that they're talking about in the papers are probably all being done by different vamps. Most of the undead aren't that original; what's worked for them in the last century is still good enough for today. Unfortunately for the police, there's almost zero chance they'll ever nab the killer."

"Great. Does that mean that there's no way to stop them?"

"No, that'll be my job. You've gotta convince your friend the Commish that I can handle this. "

Nightwing gave a sigh. "All right, so for now we put those murders aside. What about the crime bosses who have been getting killed?"

"That situation is a whole other ball of wax." said Faith. "_Those_ murders are the ones that have me concerned."

That was not what Nightwing wanted to hear. "Why?"

"Most vamps have a simple plan of attack: kill, eat, sire. They don't think of the long haul and they certainly don't take any trouble to think about who it is that they're killing."

"You're telling me no vampire's ever thought of doing something like what they're doing now?"

Faith shook her head. "Of all the vamps I've ever fought, only three of have ever had the sense to think ahead. And all three were neutralized."

Faith didn't think that it would be a good idea to tell the heroes of Gotham that she worked closely with one of them and another was in the city working for the white hats. It was hard enough to get them to accept her; for them to accept the help of a soulless killer (even if he had his soul) would be a very difficult sell, if it could be done at all.

"Of course, that doesn't mean that one hasn't come around." Faith said in a reflective tone. "I have known some vamps who have managed to upgrade their methodology."

"So you think that there could be some new vampire working this angle."

"My friends and I---"

"Where is your backup, by the way?"

Faith had been anticipating that question. "Andrew's busy downloading some files to get as much as he can on the Gotham syndicates." She chose her next words very carefully. "William's been doing his version of reconnaissance, trying to see what he can learn from the inside."

Nightwing considered this. "He's good at undercover work, this William?"

"He has a certain knack for it."

"Why do I get the strong feeling that you're not telling me something?

"Because I'm not." Nightwing's eyes narrowed - he threw another stern glance at her as she continued speaking. "I'm not going to tell you everything right away."

"Now is not the time to start getting cute."

Faith cocked her head to one side. "Is the part of the movie where you start telling me how people who work together must be able to trust each other?"

"I'm not sure I'm ever going to be willing to trust you."

Suddenly Faith had had enough and she started to walk away. A few steps later she felt Nightwing's hand on her shoulder. "Take your hands off me, dickweed." Her tone was icy as she spoke

For a moment, Nightwing almost seemed to flinch before he spoke with a forced joviality. "You're awfully touchy."

"No, I'm just sick of jumping through every hoop you and your masked friends put in front of me."

When he spoke, his voice had lost the little cordiality it had. "You're the one who asked for our help."

"You got it all wrong." Faith whirled around."Me and my friends don't need your permission. This is a courtesy. If you and Oracle and Batman tell me to get lost, we're not gonna listen. We are here to clean out the undead in Gotham, goddamnit, and we don't need your help for that. Tell the truth, you'd just get in my way."

"You want to see who'd get in whose way?" Nightwing shifted his weight, hands coming up - he was in a combat stance, now.

For a split second Faith considered shifting to such a stance herself. Talking wasn't doing much good; it might make more sense to try some violence. Then it passed.

"This is getting fucking ridiculous." she said tiredly. "You've just admitted there's a problem in your city and now we're wasting time fighting over who gets to deal with it. Can we act like the mature people we are?"

He didn't answer her, but his fists slowly fell from their place in front of him. "There are vampires in Gotham. Possibly there's something even worse behind them. You and your Batfriends may think you can deal with it, believe me when I tell you that you can't. Not without help."

"And you're the only one who can, I suppose." His voice was hard, and more than a little incredulous.

"This is my turf. Just like these streets are yours."

There was another long pause. Finally he spoke. "All right, then. I'll help you."

Faith blinked. "Don't you need to talk this over with the big Bat?" she said.

Nightwing gave a dark grin. "I said that I'd deal with that, and I will when it becomes necessary. Right now, what's going on, we need to deal with it and the sooner we get started, the better."

He started walking. Faith hesitated a moment and then stared walking after him. "Where are we going?"

"To do some housecleaning." There almost seemed to be a note of humor to his voice, but she was not certain of it.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

As Faith was dancing with Nightwing, Spike was busy getting himself kicked out of a bar that, even by his (rather low) standards, was pretty crummy. The beer was practically water, the pretzels on the counter had too much salt on them, and the Jukebox had no decent music in it, not even any Billy Idol. Still, even as they were throwing him out the door, he continued his supposed 'rant'.

"And your menu stinks!" he shouted as the bouncer continued to forcibly remove him "You don't even have one of those flowers made out of onionnnn—owww!"

Spike was interrupted as his body made contact with one of the trashcans out in front of the bar. He promptly picked himself up and began brushing street trash off of his leather jacket. "Bloody thing managed to survive hell, least I can do is keep it from the dry cleaners..." he muttered to himself.

He had been kicked out of more bars than he could even remember over the past hundred and twenty years. Up until the past week, however, it had never been done deliberately. Every night, he had been getting himself thrown out the door of wherever seemed like it was convenient. He would build a reputation as a 'troublemaker' in Gotham, and he would use that to get a look at the (as called by the humans, though experience had taught him better) seamy underbelly of the city.

Back in the old days, it would have been no trouble at all. 'William the Bloody' had been one of the most well-known (and most disturbing) vampires of his time, and he would have had no problem finding assistance. The past three years in Sunnydale, however, had tainted him in the eyes of his kind.

He was a member of 'the other side' now, as they saw it. He was a traitor. Indeed, had he not suffered his fiery end in the final battle against the First, he most certainly would have been a marked vampire in danger of being killed by either side.

To top that off, Spike was discovering that the 'spread' of the vampires in Gotham City was nothing like it had been in Sunnydale, or almost any other city he had seen. Vampires normally formed up in to packs, or gangs of some kind. Gotham was proving that was not always true. When he did see others of his kind in the city, they were in groups of two or three, and none of them seemed to be working for (or with) anyone higher authority.

It might be that it had only been three months and that the vampires of Gotham might just not be organized in the way he was used to, but that did not seem to be what was going on. His gut told him that the pattern of whatever was happening was far larger, and more sinister, than it seemed to be.

After a week spent searching the dregs of Gotham for answers and coming up without a damn thing, he decided to try another angle. He had heard people talking about another set of murders taking place in the city, and the newspapers mentioned it, too.

Some part of him had reacted with admiration. "That's genius!" something inside had thought. Many years of experience had shown him vamps who had pursued careers in crime to make money, but mostly they had stopped at drug pushing and enforcement. He had never heard of any vamp (of his time, at least) ever making an attempt at a serious inroad in to the world of criminal activity; there was too much risk of exposure; to say nothing of having to be at meetings at the crack of dawn.

To do something like what was being done – something on the level the 'Godfather' had taken it to – was something he had never imagined happening, much less succeeding. He wanted to figure out what was going on, and he knew only one way to do it that would be effective. Become a part of it.

So it was that in the past week he had been thrown out of (at least, as he remembered) twenty bars. He had caused six bar-wide brawls, performed nine acts of major vandalism and been as much of a public nuisance as he could make of himself without getting caught.

He knew of many easier(and likely more effective) ways to get the attention of the people responsible for what was going on, but every one of them involved use of a level of violence he was no longer comfortable using. Plus, they might get him arrested, and while jail didn't bother him in the slightest, being locked up would make what he was trying to do a whole hell of a lot harder.

Unfortunately, all of his efforts, up until this point, had (at least apparently had not) brought any attention to him, and now he was thinking that it might be time to change his tactics. He didn't like having to do it. It was high-risk, low-potential idea, but he wasn't sure anything else would…

A voice spoke from nowhere. "Spike?"

The vampire looked around in surprise at the name that had been used--- in the past couple of weeks he had been calling himself Will in order to try and keep his cover. (The irony of his needing a secret identity in Gotham City was not lost on him.) In less than a second he saw where the voice was coming from a – man less than ten feet away, on his left.

"It is you, right?" the man said

When he heard the voice again, he knew who was speaking with--- and in the same moment he wished he hadn't acknowledged the speaker. "Nestor?" he said slowly.

Even in life, Nestor Maddox had been intolerable. Growing up in Mississippi in the first decade of the twentieth century, Nestor was raised—- like so many others of that period--- by a Klansman father. But even by the standard of bigoted, angry rednecks, Nestor was close to a monster. Before he was eighteen, he had participated in a dozen lynch mobs. Not content with simply killing people of another race in the South, he went North in his twenties so he could "hang those uppity Northern darkies", as he had put it at the time.

Nestor was responsible for the extraordinarily brutal murders of eight black men in the Midwest, managing to get away with his crimes more because of police indifference to the matter than because of his own cleverness.

His luck had run out in Detroit. A rather angry black vampire who had known he was responsible for the killings had killed him, and then turned him so that he could, as he put it, "kill this stupid racist bastard again". The vampire, however, had underestimated Nestor, and ended up being just another pile of dust.

After being turned, most vampires that Spike had seen stopped caring about whom it was they killed. It simply didn't matter anymore – black or white, man or woman, gay or straight – a neck was a neck. Blood was blood.

Nestor was a different story. His hatred of blacks had survived his death, and it had become even greater. His loathing for blacks became so intense that for the first twenty years that he was a vampire, he spent a majority of his time killing black people in public places, bragging about it to any nearby cops, and then fleeing the area. It had taken until the nineteen-fifties for him to realize that doing it was dangerous, and that his hate crimes, if they were to continue, were going to have to be completed in private. No more talking to the cops.

It had been in 1973, New York, that he had run in to Spike. Spike had killed Nikki Wood a few moths earlier, and Nestor wanted to get in his good graces – not only because he had killed a Slayer, but because it had been a black woman he had killed. That made all the difference.

Spike had been reluctant to let Nestor tag along with him. He had a low tolerance for zealots of any kind, no matter what their obsession was – ritual, racism, drugs or whatever other sick ideas might be in their minds. Still, after Nestor had followed them around for some time, Spike had finally let Nestor run with his gang.

That had been a huge mistake on Spike's part. Nestor's focus on the world hadn't changed at all in fifty years. During the sixties, he had done some time with the American Nazi Party, and it had made him even more set in his mind about whom he turned and who he simply slaughtered. He refused to turn a black, saying that doing it was "tainting the purity of every vampire".

Spike, as well as, indeed, most of the vampire population of the United States thought that Nestor was completely 'round the bend. Even Drusilla (who had spent most of the nineteen-seventies in Canada and only come hunting in the 'States sporadically) thought he was completely out of it, and had told spike that Nestor needed to learn to understand that "we're all the Devil's children. He must understand that or he shall get a good spanking."

In her quietly mad way Dru had been prescient. The 'spanking' for Nestor came during the summer of '77 at the height of the 'Son of Sam' madness. On more than one occasion Nestor had bragged that he was the "man behind the curtain" responsible for the murder. It was bullshit, of course— no self-serving vampire would complete any killing with a shotgun. But in the middle of the hysteria that had seized the city, some black and Hispanic vamps that Nestor had managed to piss off somehow managed to convince people in the Bushmill section of Queens that Nestor was the serial murderer. The group had been unsure how to handle it until a hot night in July when the power in the entire borough had gone out. In the midst of the general looting and rioting a small number began to worry about this so called monster. The number of people involved slowly grew until nearly a hundred people gathered to "take care of the Aryan bastard."

Nestor was a strong vamp but only a very old and powerful one would have been able to turn back all those rioters. In the melee that followed, fifteen people died and Nestor Maddox was practically torn apart. Indeed he was assumed dust for almost three years until he had resurfaced in Chicago. He never told anyone how he had survived the riot, but he dropped his whole 'white power' trip. According to gossip, however, Nestor still hadn't managed to rise beyond 'muscle for hire' in the evil hierarchy. Spike was hoping that this was still the case.

"Well, gollly!" Nestor had a drawl so pronounced Gomer Pyle would have winced hearing it. "Guess the rumors 'bout your fiery demise were premature!"

Even when Nestor had been working for him, Spike had done his best to keep things ice cold between the two of them. Unfortunately, this had the opposite effect--- the meaner he was to Nestor, the more upbeat he became. Now, seeing him for the first time in nearly a quarter of a century, Spike decided to try something that for some reason had never occurred to him in all their time together. "Well, you know, turns out Hell is easier to get out of then Alaska." he said in as peppy a tone as he could muster.

"Aw fuck, should've known not even that fire and brimstone could take down ol' Billy Boy!" Nestor was now just a few feet away and finishing his statement, he slapped Spike on the back hard enough to leave a mark on his jacket.

_So much for reverse psychology_, Spike thought to himself. He desperately wanted to walk away but he had a very strong hunch that this was his way in.

So swallowing his pride (as well as his yearning to throttle Nestor) he forced a smile on his face. "So what brings you the darkest city in the east?" he asked as cheerfully as he could manage.

"Ah, you know, usual shit. Month ago I heard that this town was becoming open for vamps. So I got my crap together and came out to the Big City!" Nestor turned around. "Man, it's everything that they said it would be."

"You're kidding, right?" said Spike. "Bars have pissant beer, nobody's out on the streets cause we got them all spooked, and you can't find enough vamps to get a decent bit of violence started!"

Spike was laying it on so thick that another vampire would have noticed that he was bullshitting him. Nestor, however, was as sharp as yogurt and didn't notice. "Well, that's what I thought to—'til I met the Big Man!"

"Who's the---?" Spike changed course, mid-sentence. "What do you mean, the Big Man?"

"The big boss, the man with the plan, top banana!"

"Does he have a real name or does he just talk in clichés?"

Nestor started to come down from his ebullience. "You want to know who the Big Man is?"

Spike was now considering throttling Nestor _withou_t learning what he knew. "That. Is. What. I. Want. To. Know." he said incredibly slowly.

Nestor looked closely at the bleached-blond vamp. "Last I heard you had a soul." he said quietly. "How do I know you can be trusted?"

Spike was now being pulled by two conflicting parts of nature. After a few seconds of deciding which one to follow, he decided that he would obey both.

He grabbed the tie Nestor was wearing, gave it a good yank, whirled him around and grabbed the stunned vamp in a headlock. "You're gonna trust me cause if you don't I will slowly and excruciatingly gouge out both your eyes, break your arms and legs, find a telephone pole, nail your hands and feet to it and spend the next three hours skinning you! Get it!?"

There was a very long silence as Nestor considered this. Finally, he gave a big smile. "Shit, Spike, you're back!" he managed to choke out.

Spike wondered for the thousandth time since he'd made Nestor's acquaintance that he had managed to survive one day, let alone nearly a century. Reaching deep down for whatever calm that he had left, he swallowed deeply and said patiently: "Yes, that's right. I'm bad. I'm bad. You know it. Do I get to meet the big bad now?"

"Well, you… have to.. let me go.. first…" Nestor gasped.

Spike rolled his eyes and released Nestor from his chokehold. "First of all, what's this big man's real name?"

When Nestor was finally able to talk again, he looked at Spike. "I don't know." he said softly. Spike fixed him with a glance. "Hey, I'm only a low man in the organization."

"Organization." said Spike slowly. "You're not going to tell me that the undead have joined the Mafia, are you?"

"Of course not." Nestor spoke adamantly. "We're not big enough yet. But we're getting there. For the past few months, we've been taking out all the major families in Gotham. Numbers, drugs, money laundering, we're getting a little bit here, a little bit there. Few more weeks we'll have half of crime in Gotham will be under our control."

"And how exactly are vampires supposed to handle these things full time?" pressed Spike.

"You mean, what do we do when the sun comes up?" Nestor said in a wheedling tone. "We've managed to convince a couple of normal people to front for us in the daytime."

"And how do you manage that?"

Nestor gave Spike a shit-eating grin. "Turns out some of these family men have real families." he said coyly. "And our actions are far messier than the ones Maroni and Thorne can carry out."

_Good point_, Spike thought to himself. Aloud, he said: "You keep saying your control and your actions. But before that you said that only one of us is pulling the strings."

Suddenly the smile on Nestor's face disappeared. "Well, a lot of us are handling this but we all answer to one vamp."

"And you don't know his name?"

"Not his real one, no." The cheerfulness was gone from Nestor's voice. "He calls himself the Prince. Says that he's been involved in murder and malice for centuries. None of us know who he really is or where he's from. His accent's so thick it could be anywhere on the damn planet."

Spike was pretty sure that Nestor had never left North America but he decided to let this go as unimportant. "And you just let him take charge." he queried.

"Nobody let him do anything. The first time he started acting so uppity, five guys with swords tried to take him out. He managed to dust them all in less than five minutes. Didn't even break a sweat."

Spike considered pointing out to Nestor that vampires didn't sweat and then opted against it. For one thing, it would be over his head. For another he could tell that Nestor was honestly and truly unnerved by this Prince character. "So you all just follow his orders."

Nestor regained some of his cheer. "Well, it's not like we're only doing this because we're scared of him. Son of a buck's made us money. We got fancy cars and swanky apartments; shit for the kind of stuff we're getting I'd take an order or three."

"And these little things make up for the fact that you and your friends are being bossed around?"

Nestor looked at Spike. "And I suppose you've never bossed around a couple of vamps in your time?" he said slyly.

_When did Nestor start getting smart_? Again Spike kept this thought to himself. "So how does this Prince bloke know so much about the underworld in Gotham City?" he asked instead.

Nestor shrugged. "Guy says he's been planning this for a while. That's he's been working on something like this for nearly half a century."

"And that's good enough for you and your mates?" said Spike doubtfully.

"Every move that he's made has worked so far." said Nestor. " We control half of Gotham's underworld right now.

"Granted that's true, how exactly does he plan to take over the other half?" asked Spike.

"He's got a plan to handle that, too." said Nestor.

"And when is that going to happen?"

Nestor gave another smile, his good humor completely restored. "Any day now."

"How do you know this?" Spike persisted.

"Oh, everyone will know it."


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Chamsky turned to his partner. "I really don't feel like watching this nut. Why the hell did they put us on shift down here, anyway? We had to watch him two days ago." He shifted on his heels.

Leonards turned to look at him. "Because we drew the short straw again, Brent. You think I like being down here any more than you do? This maniac's killed more guards than any other prisoner in this loony bin!"

A cheerful voice popped up behind them, sounding from behind the wired embedded Plexiglas observation port behind them in the wall. "You don't say prisoner, dear boy. You say 'patient'" He giggled almost hysterically. "And 'loony bin' is so cliché. This is a diagnostic center for the mentally unstable." The prisoner waggled his eyebrows. "God knows they had a hell of a time engraving that on the front plaque."

Chamsky pounded his nightstick against the Plexiglas. "Knock it off." To think, he would have said he couldn't stand the laughter most of all. Only, there wasn't anything about being on duty with this patient that he _could_ stand in the first place.

----

Then again, very few people worked at Arkham Asylum voluntarily. The pay was good, but it had to be. No one would come anywhere near these creatures for any other reason. Not too many jobs with a mortality rate like that. The asylum had a hard time finding constant replacements for their security guards. Try not to think about how bad the doctors had it, what with the continued visits to "patients" and all.

Nobody pretended that Arkham Asylum was there to _help_ its patients. At best, it was a place to keep them controlled – out of the rest of the world's way. Maximum security prisons hadn't made a single dent in the more notorious felons that inhabited Gotham. So it had been decided then, that only a place like Arkham was appropriate. Trouble was that at first, they seriously underestimated the ferocity and the mania of the patients. Nowhere was this clearer the first time the Joker had arrived.

Perhaps there had been a chance…a long-shot….that they could have treated the Joker the first time he had come to the asylum. At that point he was considered only a minor felon, convicted of five murders. However, no one had known just how many other murders the Joker had already been responsible for. Whatever chance they had been given, though, disappeared when the treating physician at Arkham had taken over his case. Her name was Dr. Harlene Quinsel.

Quinsel had studied the Joker's case files carefully, and she was certain there was something she could do to help him. Had the other doctors noticed that her close study had bordered on an obsession, they never would have allowed her near him. She was, though, one of the most respected doctors in her specialty. So it was they were willing to be more liberal with the chances they gave her in his case. She had a way to cure him, or so she seemed to imply.

Her treatment had come to a lot of closed-door, one-on-one sessions with him. The other doctors considered it a great risk, but at first it seemed to be working. The Joker had shown marked signs of improvement. As they had found out later, though, it had he been the first of many elaborate facades yet to come...

He had played on some subconscious aspect of Quinsel's nature, or so it seemed. When the Monday morning quarterbacking had been done on the affair, no one was quite surer whether there was already a layer of insanity in Quinsel's mind or whether the Joker was far better at warping people's psyches then they had given him credit for originally. Whatever it was, by the time the Joker was through with her, Harlene Quinsel was gone. What was left was a shell of a human being that responded only to the depths of lunacy and depravity of the man who had helped establish them.

No one knew whether it was him or her that was responsible for the first breakout. All they knew for certain was that Dr. Quinsel had been playing with his medications, and then recommended a session of electroshock therapy.

When the session was over, the other treating physician and the two guards who had been in the room were dead. There was no sign of either patient or doctor. The only evidence that they had been in the room was a single word scrawled in blood on the wall. _Shocking._

One of the guards' throats had been cut. The other was found soaking wet, and clearly the victim of some kind of electrocution, some kind of wires from the machine on his head. The doctor had been injected with enough Haloperidol to stop a small elephant.

In fact, the only sign of the two killers was a straight-jacket and a white lab coat with Quinsel's name on it. Someone had slashed a deep line through the name-tag, though.

The Joker had shown his face less than a week later, accompanied by a woman in red-and-black, with a jester's cap and makeup. He had called her Harley. Harley Quinn. It was obvious who she had been, and just as clear that her mind had been shattered and dashed into a million pieces. The first time she and the Joker had been returned to Arkham by the Batman, she had said she didn't care.

They quickly realized having someone who worked at Arkham stay as a patient was not a good idea, and she was transferred to another institution any time she and the Joker were captured. Still, it made no difference. When he escaped, he would always find a way for her to go with him… where was the fun in creating art without inspiration? He had, however, committed enough crimes by himself to show that he could find inspiration almost anywhere.

-----

The laughter behind the Plexiglas stopped a moment. "You drew the short straw? Gentleman! I am deeply wounded! I would think you would find it an honor to be in the company of an artist of my caliber! Why would you say such a thing?" The laughter began again, this time with the Joker pounding on the glass, eyeballs glistening and rolling back in his sweaty skull. One could see the slight remains of paint in the creases of his grotesque grin, and the guards shuddered for a moment, held in the captivity of his absolute mania.

Chamsky turned to Leonards again. "Explain to me again why we don't have him gagged and jacketed?"

Leonards shrugged. "Because every time they put a gag in his mouth, he swallows it, and when they go in to get it out, he manages to get past them, and take a person or two with him when he goes. I don't like it any more than you do, but this is the way things have to be."

The Joker went silent again. "Besides that…they don't make straitjackets the way they used to anymore. Since Houdini passed on, the quality has gone so far down. Believe me, I know!" He heaved a mock sigh, his antics only beginning.

"But that's just the case of everything in this country, these days. America used to be the first in everything…but now we're just going through the motions. It makes me wonder why I even bother bringing my art to the public. Are they worthy?"

Chamsky and Leonards both ignored him. They had heard it many times before. This was the typical 'Joker rant'. Calling his murders 'art' and complaining that he was never appreciated for the skill he showed. It was almost funny--- except nobody who worked at Arkham was allowed to think that anything that this man did was funny.

"I mean these murders I keep hearing about from the other guards, the ones that everyone thinks the Killer Croc is responsible for. Blood just…isn't his thing. I know the Croc personally, and he doesn't have the stomach for it."

"Now, we have some of the more imaginative reporters from the local newspapers saying that it was done by 'vampires'. " He shook his head. "Isn't that just like the youth of today? At first I thought, 'Oh, someone's _finally_ being creative! Cutting of the teeth, and the like.', but now, they are just doing the same thing over and over again. There's no style, it's too systematic. Anyone with a slight overbite will start thinking he's Bela- frigging- Lugosi."

He began to laugh again as Chamsky pounded on the Plexiglas.

"For the last time, you sick grinning bastard, knock it off!"

"Now, really, how often has asking me worked before? I have as much right to enjoy myself as you do. You don't want me to start screaming about Rodney King, do you?" He cackled, his voice deepening and becoming unbelievably loud. "ATTI-CA! ATTI-CA! ATTI-CA!"

Leonards put his hand to his forehead. "He's improving, at least. Yesterday it was Sly Stallone. You can only take 'Adrienne' yelled at top volume in a shitty Brooklyn accent, before you start feeling a little nuts yourself." He patted Chamsky on the shoulder. "He may call himself an artist, but he's only a little better than the acts you see at the Gotham Improv."

The Joker made a tsk-tsk sound with his teeth. "No appreciation!? Not just appreciation, but RESPECT!" He shrugged. "But that's just one of the problems with these accommodations. If I were a _difficult_ guest, I would be complaining to the management by now. I mean, the view is terrible, there's no TV in the room, no room serviceI wonder if housekeeping is even in order." He threw up his hands. "I mean, the décor? Good Lord. Pink Padding. How trite." He thought this over for a second, and made the tsk-tsk sound again. "I've got to know why you have everything look like puke. And not even the good kind of puke either---"

Chamsky began fishing through his pocket for aspirin. Prolonged exposure to the Joker left everyone in Arkham with a migraine even the extra strength tablets couldn't chase away. "How long before our shift is over George? It's two o'clock in the morning, and I want to get some sleep."

Leonards was about to look down at his watch when the Joker piped up. "Relax. Your shift is over in an hour and a half."

Both guards snapped to attention. There wasn't supposed to be anything in the Joker's cell. He wasn't allowed to have anything.

"How the hell do you know what time it is?" Leonards asked.

The Joker did his best innocent schoolgirl imitation. "Oh! I just looked at this."

He then proceeded to produce a watch from seemingly nowhere. It was a pocket-watch like an Englishman would have carried. "It's amazing what you can get for fifty cents and six box tops these days!"

He turned his hand, staring at the watch's face. "It's supposed to glow in the dark if I hit one of the buttons on top of it, but none of them seem to be doing a thing."

Both guards ran for the door, Chamsky reaching for the emergency alarm and lock-down switch. But it was too late. Before he could reach it, the Joker had flung the watch in to the Plexiglas frame. It exploded backward, slamming both guards in to the wall behind them. The Joker stepped out in to the main part of the room, reaching down to pick up Chamsky's pistol.

"Oh dear. Looks like I ate all those Rice Krispies for nothing." He walked around the two guards, now pinned beneath the crushed wall, face-up. Both were unable to speak, but the fear in their eyes was clear. "Now, this is normally the time when I would find some clever method to kill you, but seeing as I'm going to have company in a few short moments, I'll have to economize." With that, he aimed the gun, putting a bullet through Chamsky's heart, following with a shot through the eye to Leonards.

"And, as I said, I have to be going. These amateurs need someone to show them what a murder is _supposed_ to look like! Besides, what would be the fun in having Bat-sap catch me here?" He tucked the gun in to his belt. "And so, to quote that great literary lion, 'Exit, stage right!'

By the time the Arkham emergency staff of guards and medics reached the room, Chamsky and Leonards were already dead. Chamsky had bled to death, clearly in agony as blood had filled his throat, choking him. Leonards had been forced to wait as part of his brain lay bubbling on the floor beside him with the piece of skull that had held it in place, unable to do a thing but watch.

The Joker was nowhere to be found.

Unfortunately, that wouldn't be the case for long.

However, the search for the Joker would have to be postponed. The inmates seized the chaos of the explosion to make a general break. Fortunately, Arkham had a direct link with the Gotham City PD so that within fifteen minutes, the riot squad had arrived and things were rather rapidly put back into order.

Unfortunately, in those fifteen minutes, six other inmates—all of them high security risks--- managed to steal away into the night.

With the memory of a similar prison break not that long ago in the Commissioner's mind, Gordon called in half of the department to begin a hard-target, in-depth search of Gotham City for these inmates. The phrase 'shoot to kill' was frequently heard.

It would be days before any crime fighter in Gotham---- professional or otherwise--- realized the significance of what had happened. By then, it was nearly too late for everyone.


	10. Chapter 9

**Hello Friends and neighbors, it's the long awaited of 'Dark Knight of the Soul. Bet you thought I'd forgotten it. Well, I have been busy on other projects (shout out to all of you who have been reading 'Day 2 Reloaded'. But I have a new beta, (thank you WingedSeraph) and we are ready at last to move forward. (Incidentally, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that she's just broken ground on 'Saints and Sinners', a CSI fic. Check it out)**

**The technology that I mention in this chapter exists, at least in some form. I'm not relying on any single comic book as my source, so blame me if I screw up somewhere.**

Chapter 9

As Andrew looked down from the steeple of the Clock Tower to Gotham City below, he couldn't help noticing the majestic brilliance of the landscape. Each time the reds and purples of the sunset faded into the horizon of the skyscrapers, there seemed to be something proud and stunning about the entire perspective.

"Enjoying the view?"

Andrew turned around as Barbara Gordon's wheelchair moved towards him. "I suppose that Los Angeles is a great place to live," he said slowly, "but even without knowing about the demons that lurk behind every corner, it still comes across imposing and threatening."

"Well, Gotham isn't exactly what you'd call Smallville." Barbara said quietly.

Andrew gave a small smile. "Los Angeles and Gotham City are huge, towering places that could swallow you whole," he said, "and in both of them there are lots of nasty, evil things that could digest you painfully. LA's so big that even in the daytime it seems dangerous. But here---" He gestured towards the cityscape, "it actually seems like it's safe."

Barbara revealed a small painful smile of her own. "Believe me, there are plenty of monsters out in the sun."

Andrew looked at the city once again. "I know that. " He sighed. "It's just nice to think that—sometimes—they aren't there. Maybe it's naïve, but…" He trailed off.

Barbara considered this. "I felt the same way once." She showed a real smile this time. "It's nice to know someone else still does."

His smile disappeared. "Probably won't be able to much longer," he said sadly. "The darkness is getting deeper."

"Yes," said Barbara. "It is." She turned her wheelchair around. "Come on, Andrew. We have to get to work."

Andrew looked out at the city as the sun sank into the horizon. He turned around before the rest of the light in the sky died as well.

Andrew didn't know what Faith had needed to do in order to convince Batman and the others that he could be trusted. All he knew was that a week after he had arrived in Gotham he had received an email with the message: "Clock Tower, 12:01 tomorrow."

The sender had somehow used an email address that didn't seem to exist. Andrew had only been mildly impressed by this seeing as how it was a move that any middling hacker, himself included, could pull off. What was more impressive was the fact that Andrew had not given out his email address to anyone in Gotham City. Neither Faith nor Spike had brought a computer with them, saying they were relying on him to get things set up, and his address was not the same one that he used when he had communicated with anyone previously.

One thing Andrew did know was that the sender could be anyone on either side of the law and that it was likely possible he was walking into a trap. Knowing this, when he showed up at the clock tower that night, he had come armed with a crossbow and a Sig Sauer that he had purchased prior to his trip to Gotham. He was a geek, not an idiot.

At first, it seemed like a wild goose chase when he found no one on the ground floor and no lights on anywhere. It was a measure of how much tougher his hide had become that when an elevator had opened in a shaft that seemed empty before he didn't blink. Later on, he admitted to himself that he would have been far more unnerved if the car he had gotten into had gone down instead of up, which was what he had expected to happen. He still wasn't sure why he had been certain of that.

The elevator had risen and for such a long time too that he wondered if he was in 'Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" doomed to ride until eventually he blasted through the roof. When the door had opened, however, he had been a little surprised at what he had found.

There were monitors everywhere. Some of them showed the outside of buildings and others looked like they were showing ordinary streets. Interspersed among the monitors were police radios and CB radios, and off to one side of the room was a giant computer screen.

All of this Andrew had noticed in passing but what his eyes were drawn to was a giant display case located in the center of the room. Under it was a complete Batman suit--- cowl, gloves, utility belt --- and though the differences were subtle, he knew that it was a suit meant to be worn by a woman.

"I guess it does draw attention." Andrew turned to the source of the voice (to find that it came from a dark-haired, moderately attractive woman who couldn't be much older than him. There was no danger that she would be defined by her looks, however; because your eyes were instantly drawn to the high-powered wheelchair that she was in. "Sometimes seeing it makes me happy," The smile on her face disappeared. "Other times---"

Andrew now had enough experience dealing with big surprises that he recovered very quickly. He realized in ten seconds exactly who this woman was. "You're Oracle," he said calmly.

"Call me Barbara," she said, closing the distance between them until she was less than a foot away, "and you must be Andrew Gruzynski."

He was put off-balance only for a moment. "So I guess once you were---" He trailed off and gestured towards the costume.

"Batgirl," she said without flinching.

Questions immediately came to Andrew but he knew that he would probably do well not to be distracted. "You've met with Faith," he said in his best Timothy Dalton- as- James Bond tone.

"I have."

"Then you know what's happening."

"I do."

_Great, Captain Obvious. Maybe you can ask about her wheelchair next_. He recovered and asked the next question. "What do you need from me?"

"That depends. What exactly do you bring to all this?" asked Barbara.

Another good question. Andrew had been pondering it ever since he had volunteered to go to Gotham City. He was calling himself 'Faith's watcher' but he didn't think that he had any real claim to the title. He knew what Faith and Spike brought to the party, but even though his mastery of fighting skills had been slowly improving ever since the fall of Sunnydale, he wasn't even at Xander's level. He was intelligent but not nearly at the level of Giles or Fred, and his computer hacking skills, while very good, were nowhere near the level of Willow's.

He decided to try the old answer-questions-with-a-question approach. "What are you going to be doing?"

"The same thing that I've been doing, help Batman defend the city." There was a touch of sadness in Barbara's voice.

"And you do that with this equipment?" Andrew gestured around the room. "Along with the help of… other people?"

"I have a small contingent of people working for me."

Andrew hadn't really heard the last part. His attention had been drawn to the various screens and digital readouts that were scattered around the Clock Tower. There were several closed-circuit cameras--- VGA, SVGA and a couple of megapixels, though Andrew had seen very few megapixels that showed pictures this clear. There were a series of devices that had to be electronic tags. There were monitors using advanced global positioning systems. There were computers showing biometric screening that was extra-advanced. There were pictured so detailed and advanced that they had to be from government surveillance, though Andrew doubted that the countries who used knew who was utilizing them. And there, highlighted against the top wall----

"You're running inverse surveillance?" Andrew asked.

Oracle didn't deny this. "Occasionally. Mainly on individuals that deserve it."

"There are a lot of people who deserve it. There just aren't enough companies that manufacture the equipment," Andrew walked over to the camera on the wall. "That's not EyeTap, it's got no Hewlitt Packard or Nokia trademarks, and" he gently he picked up one of the devices "it's not Japanese or Korean, the other major countries that handle sousveillance equipment."

Oracle face gave little away, but she seemed impressed. "There are a series of companies operating out of the former Eastern bloc that used to subcontract for the KGB," she told Andrew. " When communism fell, thy continued the work in the private sector, selling this kind of technology to the highest bidder."

Andrew had considered this. "Which leads to the obvious question: where's the money's come from?" he asked. "I know for a fact, crime-fighting doesn't pay the bills that well."

"There are some altruistic people who want us to succeed." Oracle held up a finger. "Those are all of the secrets I'm going to reveal right now, Andrew, so I wouldn't press your luck."

The remark was arrogant, but Andrew figured a woman who had worn a cape and cowl was good at keeping secrets.

"All right. I guess you know what you're doing tech-wise," said Oracle. "The question is; can you handle it psychologically?"

This question surprised Andrew a little. " Handle what? The crisis in Gotham City? I've already handled two major emergencies in LA, and they were a heckuva a lot harder than this."

Oracle looked directly at him. "Really? You were on the front lines?"

Andrew found himself wilting a little under Oracle's gaze. "Well, I didn't handle them alone. I mean I wasn't in charge… these problems in California there, um, more of a group effort, you see… but my role was critical."

"What did you do?"

Oh boy. How to explain what had happened in LA. "Well, you see, it's a little complicated, but there was a prophecy about an apocalypse, and uh, the world was going to end, no question of that, so we needed to plan strategies involving stopping the raisings but, um…" Andrew bumbled through an explanation of what had happened in Los Angeles a few months ago. It was so jumbled and disorganized that even he would have had trouble understanding it, much less believing it.

When he was finished, Barbara fixed him with a sharp glance for several seconds. Finally she said: "Andrew, I'm not the kind of person who believes these kinds of things, and even if I did I wouldn't believe that particular story."

Andrew realized he was losing the argument so he tried to gather himself. "Look, Oracle—Barbara--- I may have made this story sound like _Battlefield: Earth 2_ but trust me, it happened. A lot of people were killed that day and a couple of them were close friends. I wasn't the hero of the show, I wasn't even crewman number six, but me and my friends--- and that includes Faith--- helped save the world. I'm not the expert at this, but there are some things that I do very well."

"Really." Barbara raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"

Now it was crunch time. Andrew had to come up with something and then he did. "The crime syndicates who are losing enforcers left and right."

"What about them?"

"Have you been able to chase down leads as to who's moving up in the organizations?"

"We've been monitoring them through various sources."

Andrew leaned forward. "What if I could get you direct information as to who's being blamed and who's being promoted?"

"And how would you do that?" There was no challenge in Barbara's voice, merely curiosity.

"Let me use your computer."

Oracle considered this for several seconds then turned her chair in the direction of the large computer at the center of the room. Andrew took this as a sign and walked rapidly towards there.

"I don't know what you expect to find that I haven't," said Barbara. "I've already gone through every major police and federal database. They don't have information in any of their reports."

"Those weren't the files I was going to look for." Andrew typed 'Search: Rupert Thorne, Companies Owned' on the screen. Almost instantly a long list of companies appeared. Some were filed under the heading: 'Known Owner', the other 'Silent Partner'. Andrew looked at the list for a few seconds then typed in one of the companies listed under the latter categories.

"I see what you're trying to do," said Barbara, "but it's not going to work. I already tried going through his emails and computer files. There's nothing there that I don't already know."

Andrew barely heard this as he was slowly typing in a series of commands that would open up the electronic workings that brought up Waterford Fisheries list of stockholders, which was surprisingly large for a business that only owned one building. The police knew that the waterfront office was involved in narcotics trafficking but could not legally tie Rupert Thorne to being behind it. Oracle knew because she was the one who had hacked into the fishery's records in order to get it, and Andrew knew because he had spent the better part of the last two weeks learning all the details behind some of Thorne's operation.

"You're not going to get anything, "said Oracle patiently. "The files protected with a Z-cube algorithm coding that puts up a new firewall every five minutes. There's no way to hack into it without risking the integrity of the sys---" Oracle stopped short as she watched the meaningless pattern of numbers on the screen disappeared to reveal the email account or Jimmy Kingsfield, one of the Thorne men in the fishery. "How the hell---"

"Well I'm no Seymour Berkoff, but I know my way around a hard drive." Andrew said with just a hint of pride.

He chose not to reveal to Oracle that the reason he had managed to hack into the coding so efficiently was because of his work at Wolfram & Hart's computer virus program--- which, many years ago had been specially designed for Rupert Thorne, one of the New York branches best customers.

"Like they say on TV, I'm smarter than the average hacker." Andrew said as he had begun to check Kingsfield's email.

And that was how he had proven himself to Oracle, which he guessed was enough to get him in with Batman. The superhero had only indirectly contacted him through Oracle, speaking to him only when she was in the room. Still, Andrew supposed he was lucky to even hear a word from the Dark Knight--- most of the law enforcement in Gotham did not.

That had been two weeks ago. He had been very busy since helping monitor the city and hack into criminals files full time, but he had some time to do some thinking. Even though he wasn't a genius, he had enough time to do some real deductive reasoning and several things had started to come together; things that he now felt he had to talk to Barbara about sooner rather than later. Right now they had work to do.

The strings of vampire like killings had trailed off or at least were now occurring below the radar. The mob-related vampire killings, however, were still going strong and that was their main priority, especially since half the police force was dealing with the jailbreak at Arkham six days previous. Nobody thought that the timing of the breakout was coincidental and now Barbara and Oracle were working practically non-stop in order to try and keep track of what was going on in the minefield that was now Gotham City.

"I just got into one of the emails from Bruno Carlisle," Barbara said as they entered the main lab.

"Doesn't ring a bell," Andrew admitted.

"There's no reason that it should." said Barbara. "Carlisle spent the last six months in Miami helping the Maroni's with that end of their cocaine dealership."

"So he's been freelancing freebasing."

Barbara fixed Andrew with a long look as the horribleness of what he had just said slowly registered with him. He decided to pretend that he hadn't said it and moved on. "So where did his name come up?"

"The sender tried to hide the origin point but I tracked it down to a low management man in Zeus Enterprises."

"Oh boy," said Andrew. "Is there any possibility that whoever sent the message was talking to Maxie Zeus himself?"

"No" said Barbara grimly, "but we can't completely dismiss it either."

Maxie Zeus was an odd hybrid in Gotham City--- not sinister enough to be a crime boss, not insane enough to be an arch-villain. Zeus was one of the richest men in the country and controlled a very dominant business empire. His activities had always been borderline illegal but at some point he had come to believe that he was the Greek god Zeus. This wasn't a false front, either--- he genuinely believed that he was the ruler of the universe. Unlike most patients at Arkham, the doctors had some success in treating Zeus of his delusion. They hadn't, however, touched the criminal part of his character.

"Do we have any idea on how to figure out if the man has been in contact with Zeus?" Andrew asked.

Oracle shook her head. "Zeus Enterprises doesn't have many operations in the South. At one point Zeus considered this part of the country 'too close to Hades' and shut down operations everywhere in that part of the South except for one city."

"Let me guess." said Andrew. "Atlanta." When Barbara nodded, he shook his head and said: "Love the logic of lunatics. So where does Carlisle fit into this picture?"

"I'm not completely sure. Carlisle's strictly a money man; doesn't deal with the muscle part of the business. The email does mention one more thing out of the ordinary. He says that he's never dealt with royalty before."

"That again," said Andrew wearily. "Half the emails we're intercepting have something about meeting with nobility or royalty. Is there any chance this is just a secret way for them to talk about Zeus?"

"That was my first thought but it doesn't add up," said Oracle in a puzzled tone. "A lot of these felons have never had any connection with Zeus and those who would deal with him think he's a loon rather than someone they would willingly serve."

"So all this chatter about royalty--- it's obviously some kind of code probably has something to do with some kind of new leader in the crime syndicates," said Andrew carefully. "I don't suppose there are any players around Gotham with a name like King or Lord or something."

"Worth a try." Oracle tapped on the keyboard and brought up a screen for her criminal database. Containing files from every major local and federal crime-fighting agency in the country, it was second only to Batman's in scope. She typed in the search parameters and in less than three seconds, the search had been narrowed down. Sort of.

"One hundred and eighty six names," said Andrew wearily. "Are we going to go name by name or do you want to split them up?"

"Hold on a second. I'll cut it down by rank," Oracle typed in a new search. This narrowed the list to fifty-nine. "These are the major players. I'll get a print out of their rap sheets, see if we can narrow it down a bit---"

"Wait a minute," said Andrew. A line of data had caught his eye. "Scroll down seven names."

Barbara looked momentarily puzzled then did so. "'Nick Prince, suspect in racketeering and narcotics trafficking, 1988.'" She turned to Andrew. "What's so special about him?"

"He was the subject of a federal investigation according to this."

"So?"

Andrew looked at the screen. "Where's his picture?"

"Maybe they never took one."

"Question: does the federal government ever proceed in investigating a suspected felon without getting some kind of identification?"

Barbara considered this for a several seconds. "It might have something to do with the security of the investigation. There's also a possibility that this guy Prince made some kind of deal with Witness Protection, and they're trying to preserve his identity."

Andrew thought for a couple of seconds. "Can you find out if they have any kind of ID on this Prince?"

"Not a problem," Barbara typed Prince's name and widened the parameters of the search. Several more seconds passed. "Hmm, that's weird."

"What?"

"I just did a search for any kind of identification of Nick Prince."

"And you didn't find anything?"

Oracle shook her head. "Nothing at the DMV, nothing at Social Security, not even a birth certificate."

_Aha, _Andrew thought to himself. "In other words, except for the fact that he has a criminal record, there is no proof that he ever existed?"

"Basically, yes," Barbara turned around. "Of course, it could mean that he wasn't born in this country."

"It could also mean that he was never born, period." Andrew walked over to his workstation.

Oracle turned her wheelchair towards him. "What are you doing?"

Andrew had begun to type. "A hard target search of my own."

"And where exactly do you intend to look?"

"I think that you know perfectly well where I'm going to look," said Andrew as he began to type on the screen.

Barbara put a confused look on her face. "Andrew, I don't know what you're---"

"Cut the bullshit, Barbara. I've spent the last two years around people who work very carefully. I'm a slow learner, but I do know when I'm being played," Andrew didn't turn from the screen but his voice grew more hostile. "You don't trust me and you never have."

Barbara considered this for a few seconds. "Andrew, I---"

"You can break into the government's high risk, ultra-complicated databases but you can't solve a simple Z-cube algorithm code of the gangsters in this city? Give me a break."

Oracle realized that Andrew had her in check. "Andrew, knowing where you come from and knowing your past, did you really think we were just going to trust you blindly?"

"Blindly, no. But considering that we came to you, told you exactly what was happening here, and that we could help, I would think that we would be entitled to a little good faith."

"You didn't tell us that you and your friend were felons."

Andrew winced at this but didn't back down. "Would you have worked with us otherwise? Besides, someone who is committing all kinds of privacy violations and misdemeanors doesn't exactly have the right to take the moral high road."

Oracle pondered this for a few seconds. "You and your friends work for one of the most corrupt and morally bankrupt law firms in the world," she said coldly. "It's because of Wolfram & Hart that felons like the Penguin and the Mad Hatter get sent to Arkham rather than in jail where they should be. It's because of your law firm that Maroni and Falcone have as long a reach as they do. They put a lot of evil in this world, and you expect us to just help you?"

Andrew looked up at the screen. "Well, say what you want about our system but it is capable of doing some top-notch research."

"What are you talking about?" asked Barbara.

"I mean," said Andrew gesturing towards the screen, "that I just found Nick Prince. We were wrong about him. "

"What? How?" Barbara seemed a little surprised by what was happening.

"Prince isn't a new player. He's an old one, a very old one."

Andrew had just finished putting the limited information that they had on Nick Prince into the Angel-Slayer database, a stronghold that combined the remaining data from the Watcher's archives with the extensive records kept by Wolfram and Hart. Though the database still had several kinks in it, it was still very good at locating information on the undead.

Oracle looked at the screen, a little unsure at what was on it. She could hardly be blamed, though, as the main thing on appeared to be a composite of some kind of drawing of a face. The computer distorted it a little but even the untrained observer could see that there was something inhuman about it. "What the hell is that?"

Andrew looked at the screen himself. "According to this, the man who has the underworld of Gotham in a tizzy has been among us for over two hundred years."

"The drawings are that old?"

"He was in France during the Reign of Terror. While the battles between the rich and the poor were unfolding, Nicholae, 'the King of Darkness' led a rebellion against aristocrats who had gotten their fortunes under unsavory circumstances, mainly traffickers in prostitution and slavery."

"There were a lot of those," said Oracle. "What makes you so sure that this is the same man?"

Andrew scrolled down the screen further. " Some of the men he struck against were killed, but far more often they would swear allegiance and turn control of their enterprises over to others in their organizations. Those involved would later pledge their fealty to Nicholae." He looked at Barbara. "Sound familiar?"

"What else is he connected with?" asked Barbara.

"According to this, Nicholae can also be connected to working as the head of a family of pickpockets in London in the 1840's, a medicine show in the Wild West, a landowner in Russia before the Communists took power, a bootlegger during Prohibition…." Andrew shook his head. "I don't think I've ever seen a vampire like this before."

"What, vampires aren't allowed to have criminal records?" asked Oracle.

"No, it's just…" Andrew thought for a second. "When you read the lore about vampires, the main thing that, past or present, the books are drawn to is how vicious and bloodthirsty they are. I don't think I've ever read about a vampire whose history reads like a rap sheet."

"What do you think this means?" asked Oracle.

Andrew shook his head. "I'm the wrong person to ask about this. I've only been reading the Watcher's guides and history for less than a year. For all I know, maybe this Nicholae is typical of a certain order of vampires."

"An order? You mean this vampire might belong to some kind of tribe that works like this?"

Andrew thought about this. "I've never heard of such a thing," he finally said. "Which doesn't mean that it isn't possible. It would explain how your city has so many vamps who know how to operate outside the law."

"So how do we proceed?"

Andrew's angry look returned. "So now that I have helpful information you're willing to trust me with the details?" he said haughtily.

"Look, there's a larger issue here----" Barbara began.

"Save your argument. I realize you had reasons not to trust us. I don't accept them but I understand it. I am willing to forgive and forget." Andrew paused. "On one condition."

"What is it?"

"What we need from you--- and your fellow crime-fighters in and out of uniform--- we get. No bullshit, no games." Andrew fixed Oracle with a look of authority that he would have been incapable of wearing a year ago.

"You have the nerve to ask this from us?" said Barbara.

Feigning a self-confidence he wasn't sure that he had, Andrew stiffened his look. "We are more than capable of doing this without you. Right now there are only three of us in Gotham City. I make a phone call, you'll have ten times the people here. "

"How is that an effective threat?" Barbara asked.

Andrew considered this for a few seconds. "If it gets out that the law enforcement in Gotham, costumed and un-costumed, were incapable of handling this latest rash of murder and mayhem, how long do you think it will be until guys like Thorne and the Joker are running the city? You're barely holding this town together, one more push and you'll be drowning."

This was a bluff so egregious that not even Angel or Faith would have tried it. The only reason that Andrew was able to manage it with a straight face was by doing his most defiant Jean-Luc Picard tone with a Benjamin Sisko attitude.

The former Batgirl studied Andrew for a very long time. Finally she agreed: "I'll talk it over with the others. You should know right now none of us take well to being threatened."

"Well, you haven't left us with a whole lot of options." Andrew hoped his tone didn't give away the relief he felt at the fact that he was being taken seriously. "One last thing."

Oracle was turning around when he spoke up. "What now?"

"This vampire is a minimum two hundred twenty years old, probably fifty or sixty more than that. " Andrew knew that he was going to sound like one of those women on _Profiler_ but he couldn't help it. This was like one of those shows. " As a general rule, vampires who manage to make it past a century are usually very crafty and extremely dangerous. Given the fact that he's got a criminal record that even for this own is impressive and what he might already have managed to pull off in your city so far, you may be dealing with the undead Professor Moriarity."

Oracle shook her head. "Comparing him to a fictional character isn't helping with your credibility."

"Would you rather I compare him to the Joker?" Andrew said sharply.

"You're assuming a lot with no information," Oracle countered. "Hold off your theories until you have more proof."

Neither of them knew how much Andrew was underestimating the danger posed by Nick Prince.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Jonathan Crane was not an easy man to contact. Part of that was because he was one of the most sinister archfiends in Gotham, which automatically meant that he was somebody you didn't have on Speed Dial, but most of it was because of the nature of the crimes that he committed or, if you wanted to use his term for it, experiments. Crane --- or, as he was known to the Gotham police, the Scarecrow— had a unique and unnerving quirk towards crime in a city full of criminals with very strange modus operandi's. A former psychology professor at the University of Gotham , he had been fired for what had been considered an unhealthy approach to science—in particular the study of fear and its effect on the human body. Before his professorship at the university had been revoked by the board, Crane had successfully developed a mixture of chemicals that were capable on invoking the subject's greatest fears. The problem with his approach to his work was very simple--- before his study had been shut down, six subjects had been driven insane by exposure to this chemical. Three of them had later committed suicide.

His medical license revoked, Crane had resorted to illegal actions in order to obtain funding and subjects for his work. Simultaneously, in order to hide his identity, he had developed his alter ego—one based to represent his own longstanding fear, a phobia of crows.

It was inevitable that a person of his reputation would end up eliciting the suspicions of Batman. Rather than regard him as a figure of terror, Crane regarded him as the ultimate scientific quandary; someone who perpetuated the art of fear without being subject to its overall effects. What exactly was this man's greatest terror? Crane had not said as much to anyone but he felt that unraveling this particular riddle would be the pinnacle of his studies, not to mention the envy of every two-bit thug in Gotham.

At one point, Crane had managed to expose Batman to one of his more potent formulas. However, like almost every other fiend in Gotham, his efforts to unmask the Bat had ultimately proved futile. Other efforts had been equally unsuccessful. Somehow he had managed to survive exposure without any revelations as to what his fear was. He had managed to deduce that this was reared in some kind of childhood trauma but he was unable to delve any further. And so, unable to achieve this goal, he moved to other areas of research. This involved an expansion of his studies onto lesser people.

For several years, his vision had been limited to those in criminal enterprises. While Crane regarded most of the other criminals in Gotham as beneath him, he did realize their importance in the city. He therefore realized that it would be scientifically expedient, not to mention profitable, if he were to determine what was the greatest terrors of these archfiends. For some, such as Two-Face and The Ventriloquist, it was evident even to a layman what their idiosyncrasies were and one could therefore easily determine their fears. Others, such as Maxie Zeus and The Riddler were harder nuts to crack (figuratively speaking) and had taken a greater level of work. The crime bosses such as Maroni and Falcone presented some challenge, but for the most part Scarecrow left them alone. These men left themselves with little chance for exposure. It was far simpler and more efficient to work through men lower down the food chain in their organization. In the end, the effects could be far more devastating.

It was for all these reasons that Scarecrow was so reclusive. He rarely came out into public, usually delivering his chemicals through secondary parties while he observed from a discreet distance. The police had been casing him for months but he was able to elude them (if you were an archfiend in Gotham City you learned very rapidly how to make yourself well-nigh invisible). However, even on the rare occasion that he had been taken into custody, it was never for very long. A few weeks afterwards , upon receiving a package in the mail, the prosecutor would suddenly and quickly dismiss the charges, the judge would throw the case out of court, or a witness would recant his testimony. They would always give weak reasons but the underlying truth was clear.

They were afraid.

Despite all this, however, the Scarecrow knew better than to be in public view. The number of people who knew where he was at any given time was very small. Scarecrow made sure it stayed small. What contact people had with him was through the telephone and via email, both methods he made sure were untraceable back to him.

Which is why he was very surprised one evening when someone contacted him via the Internet. The message said: "Am a great admirer of your work. Want to discuss taking it to the next level." It also strongly implied that he would be in Crime Alley at 2AM the next evening and that it was in his best interests to be there.

The Scarecrow was amused by the brazenness of this sender but was also intrigued by the phrasing of the note, as well as how whoever it was had gotten it to him in the first place. Backtracking the email revealed that it didn't come from Batman or any of his friends nor, for that matter, any of the low-level thugs in Gotham. It could have come from one of the other archfiends, but it was rare that any supervillain would even say hello to another one, let alone express high regard for another's work. The crime syndicates did their best to avoid contact with anyone 'abnormal'—they were too much of a risk. So who was it?

The Scarecrow was well aware of what had been going on over the past few months. All of the scientific evidence pointed to the possibility of it being the work of a new player in Gotham. However, despite all the activity in the underworld, no one had found out who it was—mainly because those who looked into it kept turning up dead or more often, disappearing altogether. This certain note seemed to be an engraved invitation by this individual.

Another man--- even another villain--- might have been frightened about making contact with this unknown terror, but the Scarecrow was not one of them. In a perverse way he felt honored that he had been the first contact. In fact, for the first time in awhile, he was intrigued by another villain. However, despite his interest, he was not a fool.

Which was why when he came to Crime Alley at 1:45 the next night, the Scarecrow made sure not only that he was heavily armed, but that he also had two henchmen loaded for bear guarding him from both sides as well as two snipers in a building just above the street.

His henchmen were not as sanguine about what might happen. They weren't shaking in their boots but they were clearly rattled. Being a man of science this interested him.

"So," he said, "I know from experience that you are two of my toughest associates."

"Um, it's nice of you to say that, Boss," said the one on his left.

"Yet it is clear to me that you are frightened of someone."

"Um---um---"

"Yes, we are," said the one on his right calmly. He knew how to read his boss better than his comrade and knew that honesty was all that he accepted from his lackeys.

"Are you afraid of the man I am about to meet?" Scarecrow asked almost casually.

"A little, Boss," his second guard said. "I mean, if this is the guy behind everything that's happening now, he could be dangerous."

"Indeed," said Scarecrow quietly. "A man capable of devouring people, who has wreaked havoc on the underbelly of this city, and who seems to be able to manipulate both felons and policeman as if they were so many chessmen, that…" he shook his head, "is a man to be frightened of."

"If it is just one guy," said his first henchman. "I hear it's an army."

The Scarecrow raised an eyebrow--- or would have, if it wasn't painted on. "An army?" He spoke in his most scientific manner. "Well, that would exponentially more frightening, wouldn't you say?"

"I'll say."

"But if that is so frightening," he spoke almost as if he was teaching again, "why remain here? Why not run off into the night?"

"Because you ordered us to be here." The first lackey spoke a little too enthusiastically.

Scarecrow made a mental note to give the man a bonus for his honesty. "So fear of the known is prevailing over the fear of the unknown?" he said in his best Socratic matter.

"Known, unknown, doesn't make much of a difference in the end, does it?"

The Scarecrow's two flunkies were so unnerved that they both nearly dropped the guns they were carrying. Though he gave no outward sign of it, Scarecrow was mildly concerned as well. He had been looking straight ahead at nothing for the last twenty minutes, yet suddenly there were three figures standing less than ten feet away. It wasn't _like_ they had come out of nowhere, they _had _literally come out of nowhere. This was new and, while Scarecrow admired novelty in a lot of things, this wasn't one of them—particularly if it gave the strangers the edge.

Trying to regain his advantage, he gave a quick look over the three new arrivals. Two of them were tall, broadly muscular men dressed in dark coats and cowboy boots. The one in the middle, however, drew Scarecrow's attention, mainly because he seemed so… ordinary. He wasn't as big or as strong as his two companions; his face, though scarred, was bland, his hair was neatly combed, and he was wearing a non-descript blue suit. Scarecrow was reminded of an English professor who wasn't very prominent at an alumni function. Despite all that Scarecrow was convinced that he, not the thugs on either side of him, was the source of power. He was the one who needed to be watched the closest.

"What do you mean by that?" Scarecrow wanted to gauge the new man's cunning.

"You mean fear of the known versus fear of the unknown?" The man in the blue suit spoke softly, "I have found in my life that it matters very little what is scaring people as long as they are afraid. Fear is a powerful enough motivator on its own that it doesn't need to be moderated by specifics."

"Interesting theory," said Scarecrow. "However there isn't a lot of scientific evidence to back that up."

Blue Suit shrugged. " Well I've never been much for the science part of fear. That's one of the reasons that I wanted to meet with you in the first place."

"You don't care much for science but you call yourself an admirer of my work?" Scarecrow was beginning to feel a little offended.

"You misunderstand me." A big grin appeared on Blue Suit's face that Scarecrow knew had absolutely no good will behind it. "I am a great admirer of the end result, and there are so few people out there --- even within my own circle --- who appreciate such things that it is rare to find someone who takes as deep and sweeping an interest in it as I do."

"That's rather odd, considering that the main element of crime is fear." Scarecrow knew that this conversation would be seen as borderline absurd even by his colleagues, but this man was clearly hiding something and he wanted to drug it out of him.

"Again we are speaking at cross-purposes. Crime is merely my vocation. While this field is one that continually expands, these are my co-workers, not my colleagues."

"And who are the people in your circle?"

"That's just it."

What happened next occurred so fast that Scarecrow almost missed it. Blue suit's face seemed to shift. His eyes, which he could barely make out in the darkness, suddenly began to glow. The ridge between his nose and forehead became lined and his teeth became fang-like.

"They're not people."

Despite the fact that he was looking death in the face, Scarecrow didn't show the slightest sign of fear--- he was far more fascinated then afraid. His henchmen, however, lost whatever measure of composure they still had and began very slowly to back away. Scarecrow could have ordered them to stand fast but he was far more curious as to what was going to happen next.

It was the scientist in him.

For several seconds the man in the blue suit just looked at the three of them, then he nodded his head to the left. This was apparently a signal to the men on either side of him because seconds later their faces had changed as well.

They came at him. For a split second Scarecrow thought that he was in some danger, but the two thugs merely brushed past him without even a glance.

His flunkies realized what was happening because they began firing their weapons at Blue Suit's thugs. At least four of the bullets hit home but the thugs didn't fall or even slow down. His henchmen weren't cowards but this threat clearly unnerved because they began to run away. The thugs responded to this by running faster than Scarecrow was sure that mere man was capable of. In less than thirty seconds they had caught up with Scarecrow's flunkies.

The flunkies began begging for their lives but Scarecrow knew that it was a futile exercise. The looks he had seen on Blue Suit's men showed that they would offer no mercy. His men, big and brawny as they were, began to scream like babies—first in fear, then in pain.

Scarecrow watched for several seconds impassively before finally turning away.

"I thought you had a stronger stomach," said Blue Suit quietly.

"I've seen all I needed to," Scarecrow walked towards Blue Suit. "An impressive demonstration. May I ask why I was so privileged with this performance?"

"I wanted to show you what I and my people are capable of."

"And by people, you mean vampires."

Blue Suit nodded. "If you want to be so crude."

"Well, as impressive as that is, Mister…" Scarecrow trailed off.

Blue Suit gave a small bow. "Prince Nicholae."

Scarecrow considered this. "Prince? You have royal blood in your veins?"

"On several occasions." said Nicholae with a wide grin.

Scarecrow had a feeling that this was supposed to be a bon mot, but he wasn't sure exactly how to take it. So he decided to move on. "Would you mind calling off your lackeys?"

Suddenly Scarecrow realized that Nicholae's men had stopped--- feeding is what it had sounded like--- and were now standing on either side of him looking poised for action.

"Who are you calling a lackey?" said the one on his left.

"Pretty fancy talk for a man dressed as a rag doll." said the one on the right.

"Were I you, I wouldn't get on Pike and Lyle's bad side." commented Nicholae. "They used to ride with the Daltons before they were turned. "

"Ike said we were the meanest sonbitches he'd ever rode with." Lyle said with a trace of pride.

"Well, this is all very fascinating but would you mind explaining why I was invited here in the first place?" Scarecrow turned to the bodies of his flunkies. "Besides making a meal out of my henchmen?"

"Indeed, we have strayed a bit from the point." Nicholae walked back a few paces. "Mr. Crane--- you don't mind if I call you that? To call a man of your stature Scarecrow seems demeaning to both of us."

As always Scarecrow was a little unsettled to be called by his real name, but he decided to let it go. Considering what he had seen tonight, the fact that a stranger knew his identity seemed low on the list of problems. "If we're going to be using real names, Nicholae--- you don't mind if I call you that, sir?" Nicholae nodded. "Would you mind if we were to move to some place a little less conspicuous?"

"Quite all right."

Scarecrow pulled out his cell and began to dial his snipers. Before he pushed the last number, however, he glanced at Nicholae. " Your colleagues, they haven't killed the two sharpshooters I brought?"

Nicholae looked him up and down. "Why? Would you care if they lived or died?"

"I won't feel a great emotional void if their lives were ended," admitted Scarecrow, "but it will be a financial inconvenience if they were. Good help is so hard to find."

"Indeed." said Nicholae empathetically. "Don't worry. My orders were not to kill them unless I said otherwise."

Scarecrow pondered this information as he dialed the last number. "So you knew I brought snipers." he said curiously.

"Al Capone believed in having all his exits covered. I've found it's good to have every bet covered."

Scarecrow perfunctorily talked with his men then hung up. Something that Nicholae said had just registered. " You mentioned Capone a minute ago and your colleagues used to ride with the Daltons?"

"And your point is?"

"I'm a little curious as to why someone who is dead knows so much about organized crime."

Nicholae gave another big grin. "Come now, you and I both know that it's not really that organized."

Scarecrow knew that he could be risking his life but he knew bluffing this thing was more dangerous. "Enough with the cheap jokes. This is a serious question and I deserve a legitimate answer."

Nicholae turned serious. "Quite right. Mr. Crane, I have been around for a very long time."

"Forgive my asking but how long? Are we talking centuries?" Scarecrow wanted to get a clear picture of the creature he was talking with.

Nicholae was still for a few seconds before he put his hand in his suit pocket. He pulled out one of the most dazzling pieces of jewelry that Scarecrow had ever seen--- a golden bracelet with rubies and emeralds blazoned into the design. "This was given to me by Catherine De' Medici for services rendered." He looked at him for a few seconds. "Is your curiosity satisfied, Mr. Crane?"

Scarecrow's body language gave nothing away but inwardly he was more than a little amazed. The magnitude of what Nicholae was saying---

He managed to shrug it off. Nicholae wanted him for some services and it would probably be best if he paid attention. "Continue, Nicholae." he said calmly.

"As I way saying, I've been around for awhile. I've had a lot of time and opportunity to observe the world around me and my colleagues in general. You know what overwhelming common thread I have observed?"

Scarecrow thought for a minute. "There are too many possibilities. You'll have to be more specific."

"I have learned that, dead or alive, the most ruthless and cruel command the greatest power," He began to walk. "I have also found over the centuries that most of the brutal and cold-blooded people have migrated to one place." He turned to Scarecrow. "Can you guess where that is?"

"Since you're here, I'd say you would have to be talking about the criminal part." Nicholae nodded. "Forgive my bluntness but neither of these statements are what you would call earth-shattering."

"No, they're not." admitted Nicholae. "But the fact is many of my--- people--- go about their entire existence on this planet never being able to put two and two together and make the obvious connection."

Scarecrow considered for a moment what Nicholae was saying. "Let me see if I follow you. You're saying that vampires, being endowed as cruel and brutal by nature, should be working in criminal enterprises because they have the right mindset for them."

Nicholae actually turned His body and smiled. It was not a particularly pretty sight but Scarecrow had seen far worse. "Well done, Mr. Crane; you've found my point precisely." He turned serious again. "Most--- nearly all, in fact--- of my people spend their existence thinking no further ahead than their next meal. The few who do have more than that kind of attitude think only of creating a world of chaos and destruction which, even when successful, are fleeting and always lead to their demise. In all my centuries, Mr. Crane, I have never met a vampire with vision and only a handful of people with the capability to even grasp the concept."

"Which is?"

Nicholae stopped walking and gestured towards the cityscape of Gotham. "Look at this city, Mr. Crane; millions of people to exploit, to manipulate, to feed off. If a man could control Gotham, a city with hundreds of millions of dollars invested in criminal enterprises, with the largest number of criminals and strategists, with enough power to make Solomon blush---" His hands fell to his sides, "there's no telling how far he could go."

Scarecrow felt simultaneously impressed and disappointed. "This is a noble aspiration, Nicholae, and one that I admire in audacity."

"But?"

"People have been trying to control Gotham City for decades. That's part of the reason that the murder rate is so high. There are too many players involved, too many fiends."

"What if," said Nicholae, "those players began killing each other off? What if enough destruction was sewn within each organization that, when harvested, would cause them to simply implode?"

Suddenly Scarecrow began to see what Nicholae was really driving at. "And the survivors of each group?"

"Would be swallowed by my organization." Now a very cruel smile appeared on Nicholae's face. "It doesn't matter how dangerous the felon or cunning the criminal is. Once they've been turned, they become part of your army."

"But where do I fit in?" asked Scarecrow. "Am I just to be another of your puppets?"

"No, no, no!" Nicholae spoke emphatically. "You are to be a key figure in this great work. You see, my colleagues and myself can handle the lesser criminals, even some of the higher-ups if it comes to that. But there is-" he said searchingly, "what you would call an x-factor in these monstrosities like Two- Face and the Penguin," Nicholae made a gesture of disgust, "And especially that clown freak."

"What makes them more dangerous than men like Thorne or Falcone?"

"Isn't it obvious?" said Nicholae. "They are criminally insane. While an insane vampire can be very dangerous, these people maintain a level of psychosis so high that it could be fatal to my plans."

"You know," said Scarecrow almost casually, "there are those who consider me mad."

Nicholae put his hand on Scarecrow's shoulder. "I am not one of those people." He said. "Which brings us, as it were, to the heart of the matter. I have called you here to make you an offer."

"Which is?"

"You are a man of science. Someone who knows the science of fear as well as any man could." Nicholae turned to him. " I need someone who has the ability and the skill to neutralize such as the Joker and Two-Face. I am prepared to offer you anything you would require--- money, manpower, facilities--- to carry this out."

The Scarecrow considered this. "And what remuneration would I receive for my services?" He spoke calmly as if he was discussing the weather.

"If you succeed, you will sit at my right hand when I take control of all of Gotham City criminal enterprises."

"You seem awfully sure that you'll succeed."

"My associates and I have been laying the groundwork within the underworld for the past four months. If everything continues according to schedule, in two months we will control the rest."

"What about the police?"

Nicholae laughed disdainfully. "While the cops here are a tad smarter than the usual bunch, we've been running rings around them so far. When the time comes, we'll be able to handle them without a problem."

"You do realize that you've laid all this out and you haven't mentioned the biggest obstacle to your success." Scarecrow said calmly.

"You mean the erstwhile man in the bat suit?"

"He's more formidable then you give him credit for being. You honestly think that he's not going to make trouble?"

"That's actually my last selling point."

Suddenly the magnitude of what Nicholae was telling him clicked. Scarecrow decided that he was going to sign on but he decided to make him say it. "This is part of your plan."

"It's the center of my plan." Even though Nicholae's face was normal his teeth had become fanglike once again. "We are going to unmask, break, and eliminate Batman."


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The man driving the car was named Caldwell and, even though he had been working with Nestor and Spike for the last seven days, Spike didn't think that the man had said more than three words at once over that time. Part of that was undoubtedly because Nestor spoke more than any four vampires (male or female) that Spike had ever known, but the blonde-haired vampire knew that it was a lot more than Nestor's loquacity that was keeping Caldwell's trap shut. This was the result of loyalty and fear. It was the kind of thing that usually would only come after months of service or days of cruel action. Spike had a good idea about which it was.

"I like the fact that so many of your people know how to keep their mouths closed." Spike said casually to Nestor as they drove uptown.

"Yeah," drawled Nestor, "but it ain't a lot of fun. Shee-it, 'til you showed I didn't think I'd ever be able to have a decent conversation with anyone."

_Mores the pity,_ thought Spike. "So he makes everybody keep quiet so none of his plans get out, right?"

"Nope. Most of the time he doesn't tell us the plan at all until there's only a few hours to go." Nestor tapped the back of Caldwell's chair. "Caldy here only got his instructions 'bout two hours ago and then he comes to get us. Ain't that right?"

Caldwell gave an almost invisible sign of acknowledging that he had heard. Even that, Spike had come to realize, was a big gesture for him.

"And you don't mind the fact that he keeps you in the dark?"

The southern-fried vamp shrugged. "Hell, it's been working so far. Besides, we're supposed to stay in the dark, right?"

Nestor gave a high-pitched cackle and elbowed Spike in the ribs. Even though the poke was hard enough to bruise, Spike gave a sick smile and laughed at a joke so lame the people at Hee-Haw wouldn't have used it.

"Actually," Nestor suddenly turned serious, "most of us got a lesson when somebody spread some information without his permission. "

"Who?"

Nestor shrugged. "Never knew his name. Isn't like I can ask him."

"The Prince killed him."

Nestor shook his head. "Prince found out somehow. He gathered a bunch of us together and told us this is what happens to idle tongues."

"What'd did he do to the guy?"

"Ripped his tongue out of his mouth. "

Spike wasn't sure to whether to sound repelled or amused. He settled for a mixture of the two. "That'll get your point across."

"I'll say," said Nestor. "There hasn't been a leak since."

"So you honestly have no idea what the Prince wants us to do."

Nestor shook his head again. "Don't matter much. He didn't call this kind of meeting just to give a lecture. Whatever he's gonna tell us, it's important."

This was new. "So you mean I'm actually going to meet the Prince tonight?" Spike casually asked.

"Don't know why you're so surprised. You've been doing your job the past couple weeks and you've come through with all your promises. Plus with me vouching for ya, I'd say you've rolled your bones."

"Made my bones," Spike gently corrected.

Nestor shrugged. "Made, rolled, whatever. Point is, you've been a good boy, and it's time you got your present."

He slapped Spike on the back. Though Spike was really getting pissed at Nestor's touchy-feely act, he knew better than to show irritability; not after he was coming close to his goal.

The night after Spike met Nestor, the redneck vampire had taken him to the docks of Gotham city where they had gone to a small, badly-lit roadhouse called The Blue Devil. Seconds after he got there, Spike realized that this bar was chock full of vampires.

"Not to be a nancy-boy, but why aren't there any real people here?"

Nestor had looked at Spike as if he was the idiot. "This place is under our control. Might say we've had a stake in it for some time. " He turned to the bar. "Ain't that right, boys?"

The bar erupted into a low laughter. Spike didn't join in the frivolity, partly because it was a piss-poor joke but mostly because he was reeling from the implications of this. In all the years that he had been a vampire on either side of the fence, he had never known a single vampire controlled public establishment. Vamps had controlled buildings before (he had used two for his headquarters on his first stint in Sunnydale) but they had always been either abandoned or in a part of town away from normal people.

"So who used to own this dump?"

Nestor thought for a few seconds. "Used to be run by one of Maroni's boys. I think it was Joey Rubino."

"When did the Prince take him out?"

Again Nestor had fixed Spike with a shifty look. "Like I told you before the Prince doesn't bother with the small-time shit. He gives an order, someone carries it out--- easy-peasy, it's done."

This had concerned Spike. For one thing, he knew that it took a pretty nasty and menacing vamp to inspire this kind of loyalty. For another, he knew that kind of fealty only occurred after a long time of working. This Prince, whoever he was, had been at this a lot longer than he had thought.

He managed to hide his apprehension. "So I guess I'm not gonna meet the Prince tonight."

"Course not!" one of the vampires at the bar had said. "No one meets the big boss on the first day."

Spike fixed the vampire with a narrowed eye. The vamp who had spoken was big--- six-seven, six-eight easy--- and really bulky. He had bright red hair and ice-cold blue-eyes.

"Hey Thor." Nestor draped his arm around Spike's shoulder. "This here son-bitch is William the Bloody, better known as Spike."

Thor--- if that was his name--- looked Spike up and down. "Heard a lot of things about you Spike," he had said casually. "Heard you iced a couple of Slayers back in the day."

Despite Thor's tone, Spike knew that he was on thin ice with this guy. "That's right."

"Also heard you got neutered twice." Thor spoke evenly. "First by the government and then by a Slayer."

Nestor turned back to Spike so quickly that it might have been comical under other circumstances.

Now was his first big hurdle. Trying to simultaneously sound angry and amused, he looked Thor dead in the face: "Chip's out of my head; Slayer's out of my life," he snapped at Thor. "I'm ready for action."

"How do we know for sure that you're on the low road?" Thor asked quietly.

"I've been a busy boy the last week or so," Spike calmly countered. "Your boys must have noticed it."

"You've got to be kidding. Those penny ante, lame ass stunts that you've been pulling are barely one step above a drunken frat boy."

"Oh, now I get it," Spike replied. "It's not enough that you have to commit criminal acts, they have to be violent criminal acts."

"See these vamps?" Thor gestured around the bar. "They've all killed a lot of people. The past week alone I'm killed thirteen of them." A smile appeared on his face. It was the smile of a boy going off to war. "Some of them were business; some of them were purely for pleasure, but I slaughtered them just the same."

"You killed thirteen people this week? Shit, I once killed eighteen people in a day." Spike had shaken his head. "Being a killer isn't about the number of notches on your belt. It's about being fearsome and cunning. It's about killing the right people at the right time." He lowered his voice. "It's one of the reasons I'm so impressed by your boss. There's a guy who knows how to pick his time and place."

"Like I said, you don't see the Big Guy before he wants to see you."

"Like I said, give me a chance to prove myself."

"And how do you intend to do that?" asked Thor dryly.

Before anyone could react Spike grabbed Nestor by the lapels and placed him a headlock. "Want to see me tear his head off?" he had asked coolly.

Thor considered this. "Wouldn't prove anything if you did," he said just as calmly. "Any shitbird can kill one of his own."

Spike dropped Nestor to the ground. "What'll it take then?"

A serious, pensive look appeared on Thor's face. "You want in?" He made a come hither gesture. "Here's what it'll take."

The next week had been among the most strenuous for Spike in a long time. It became clear very quickly that he was being initiated in the life of a low-level criminal. He was getting a lot of the jobs that flunkies in human and undead mobs do when they're starting out---- coffee runs, shaking people down for protection money, the robbery of several small establishments, etc. He was kept so busy, in fact that he had only been able to make contact with Andrew a couple of times, both by email. He was getting the ins and outs of this, but he couldn't help think that all of this was groundwork for a larger plan.

Then, just before nightfall, Thor had sent a car around to pick up him and Nestor. Even though he hadn't been able to get any information out of Caldwell and Nestor was pleading ignorance, he thought he had an idea what was coming next.

He was about to go to the next level.

"Do you know who else is coming to this meeting?" he asked Nestor.

Nestor thought for a second. "Well, he wants to hear from some of the major players we now have in the crime families. Also he'll want to hear how other things are going with the desperados that have been released on the city."

The day he had begun his undercover work, Spike had learned that the Prince had arranged the equivalent of a prison break at Arkham. Seven high risk felons had managed to escape. Though he hadn't heard any verified information, Spike figured that this had been done to accelerate the spread of chaos and to keep the police and superhero element of Gotham City distracted.

But the Prince had taken this one level further. Somehow--- Spike had no idea how--- the big boss had insisted that certain members of his gang--- monitor some of the escapees activities. This was easy for some of them--- Two-Face and The Penguin were not exactly known for being particularly subtle, but for others who had a certain degree of cunning --- such as Azasz and the Riddler--- it was far trickier. Somehow, the Prince was providing them with data that was proving to be correct. Spike himself had been given information that had led him to the hideout of the Ventriloquist and Scarface mere minutes after the schizophrenic and his demented doll had left before it.

"You really don't know how the fuck is your boss getting all his inside intel."

Nestor shook his head. "Wish I did," he said, "but the guy plays a lot close to the vest."

"And you don't know anybody who knows anything?"

"Best anybody can figure is that he's got a couple of seers working for him." Nestor respobnded thoughtfully. "Who they are and where he got them is beyond me."

_So are a lot of things, _thought Spike. "Come on. He's got to have some kind of inner circle. Even the Godfather has consigliore."

"There's a chain of command," admitted Nestor. "but it's very restricted. Way I hear it, he's got three or four major advisors. They give the orders to six or seven mid-level guys who give the orders to seven or eight guys further down. Thor, he's one of those guys."

Though his face gave nothing away, this disturbed Spike a good deal. Thor may have been muscle-for-hire but he was smart muscle-for-hire. If he was that low on the totem pole, how tough did that make the men who were directly above him? How tough that did make---

Nestor snapped him out of his reverie. "We're here."

Spike snapped to attention and got out of the car.

Compared to the overall grunginess and filthiness of where Spike had been working out of for the past week, almost anything would have been a step up. The exterior of the building they arrived at was an improvement but only a marginal one. It was one of those housing complexes that the government sometimes builds for its poorer citizens. Gotham City's version of this was perhaps slightly better than those in Chicago or Baltimore but that improvement could only be noted in things like how much of the building was not covered by obscene graffiti or how many of the windows were not broken. About the only real improvement Spike noticed was that the smell of the slum--- that bouquet of urine and rotting garbage that was consistent everywhere from London to Harlem--- was far less potent then it should have been. To someone who had an enhanced sense of smell like Spike, this was no small thing but he doubted the other residents would be grateful. "Who lives here?" he asked.

"Vamp named Robson." Nestor replied as he gingerly stepped around the car in order to avoid the garbage.

"Someone that high up works out of _this_ shithole?" Spike asked doubtfully.

Nestor noticed Spike's look of revulsion. "I know it doesn't seem like great shakes," he said as he walked to the front of the building, "but he has managed to fix the place up a bit."

"How? Did he give the rubbish a good scrubbing?"

By now Nestor had made it to the front door of the place. He rapped on it three times.

"Who is it?" asked a raspy voice on the other side.

"It's me and Spike."

There was a pause. "You're vouching for him?"

Nestor grimaced. "He's paid his dues."

There was another, longer pause. "Not all the way," The voice finally muttered.

"He will tonight."

Spike was getting frustrated with all the bullshit. He didn't like having an idiot like Nestor speaking for him, but he had a hunch that his hold here was still very tenuous. He couldn't afford to piss anyone off so he held his tongue.

There was another long pause. Finally the door swung open. "Come in. Quick."

"Thank you." said Nestor sarcastically as he and Spike entered the building.

"I'm sorry Nestor but protocol is protocol."

"We aren't in the goddamn Marines, Colby." Nestor had now turned to the source of the raspy voice. "And you and I are of the same rank."

Colby stood firm. "I have my orders the same as everyone else."

Spike only peripherally noticed the squabble because he was more than a little astonished at the layout of the place.

For one thing, it was clean. Not eat-off-the floor clean and Spike was pretty sure that he could hear insects scampering about, but the dirt, the grime, and he smell that had been so prevalent in the building that it was hard to believe it was the interior of the building that he had just seen.

For another thing, it didn't look like the interior of a slum. There were all kinds of technology--- a security camera monitor, several computers, an icebox--- that most certainly did not come with the house they were in.

As Spike got a better look at the place, he also saw that there were at least a dozen vamps in the place. They, too, looked out of place. While four or five of them (including the guy at the door) were in street clothes, three of them were in sharp looking suits—tailor- made at that. Two were wearing hats that could only be described as fedoras. All they needed were violin-cases and they could be extras in a '30's gangster film. However that would have been a misnomer--- Spike was pretty sure that these were '30's gangsters.

Nestor noticed his look of incredulity. "Takes a bit of getting used to, doesn't it?" he said as he walked over to Spike.

By now Spike had recovered his equilibrium. "I've seen better," he mentioned casually. "I once spent a couple of weeks in a government facility that was hidden under a bunch of shrubbery, lot more impressive." He gave the place another glance. "Smelled fresher, too."

"When you have limited material you make do with the scraps that you're given." The voice that spoke was cold and hard. It was also the sound of someone with authority.

Spike turned around. At the far side of the room was a large Chippendale writing desk. A vampire with silver hair and cold brown eyes was standing up. He was wearing a black pinstripe suit with what looked like a silk handkerchief in the front pocket. His nails seemed well manicured. The man was so well-groomed Spike almost thought he was a poof, but one look at his eyes gave lie to the idea that there was anything fey or soft about him.

The silver-haired vampire got to his feet and fixed Spike with a glare.

Spike, who was pretty good with fierce looks, matched it. The general noise in the room turned quiet as the two vampires stared at each other. "Let me take a wild guess," said Spike slowly. "You're Robson."

The silver-haired vamp began walking towards Spike but did not lower his gaze. "Right the first time."

"And if I understand the pecking order 'round here, you work for somebody who works for somebody who works for the big boss."

Robson didn't lower his gaze but he became a little fidgety. "I wouldn't put it that way---"

"So I came all the way from California, put in all this time and energy to work here, and now I'm meeting someone who's basically middle management." Spike snorted. "Waste of my bloody time---"

Before Spike even knew what was happening, there were hands on his duster. He began to struggle but before he could even react, he found himself being thrown into one of the walls. He managed to get to his feet but by the time he was standing up, there was a vamp on either side of him.

"If you know what's good for you, stay down." Robson's voice had gotten colder, if such a thing was possible.

A dull red field was beginning to appear around Spike's eyes. "This is how you play ball? This is bloody bush-league."

Suddenly he was grabbed by the lapels and Robson was right in his face. "The rules are set with the ones with power. Let me clue you into a couple of them. First and foremost, you meet the boss if and when we tell you. Until then, you will take orders from who the big man in charge is. Right now that's me."

"So if I---" Before Spike could finished, Robson kneed him in the nads.

"Not finished talking!" said Robson. "Second of all, in order to move up the ladder, you have to earn it."

Now Spike was getting really angry. "How many fucking people do you have to kill the get a goddamn seat at the table?" he said furiously. "I spent the last bloody century wreaking mayhem and destruction everywhere I went."

"That was then; this is now." Robson pulled him in again. "You may have been a horrible murderer back in the day, but wearing the coat of some Slayer bitch you killed in the seventies is not going to cut it anymore. GOT IT?"

Under any other circumstances, soul or no soul, Spike would have torn this bloke a new asshole by now, but right now, he needed a way in and this was it. He was not, however, going to take this attitude lying down.

"All right," he whispered in a tone so low that only a vampire would have been able to hear it. "Now let go of me." There was a long pause and trying to sound shamed, he said, "Please."

Robson released Spike's coat and began to slowly turn away. The second before he did, Spike grabbed the vamp on his left side, picked him up and threw him at Robson. The two vampires collided and both fell to the ground. The vampire on his right side charged but Spike kicked him in the stomach, knocking him into one of the suited vampires that had come over to back him up.

Spike knew that he didn't have a lot of time so he bolted over towards Robson who was still picking himself up and grabbed him by the lapels. He whirled around, keeping a firm grip on Robson, and turned to face the five vamps that were now running towards him.

"Everybody stay back or I rip your boss' head off!!" The vamps stopped running. Spike was more than a little surprised--- he hadn't really expected it to work.

"Dusting me isn't going to get in to see the boss any faster." Robson sounded remarkably calm considering his position.

"This isn't so I can see Mr. Big," Spike spoke with more than a trace of his old self in his tone. "Nobody--- I don't care who the fuck they're working for--- treats me like I'm just somebody who was sired a week ago. I am William-the goddamned Bloody. I have been a killer for over a century, I survived being tortured by the military and I went ten rounds with the First evil and am still here to talk about it. If that weren't enough, I've just gone through your hazing bullshit. You talk to me with respect, goddamn it, 'cause I've bloody well earned it. _Are we clear now, asshole?!"_

There was a very long pause as this sunk in with everyone. Finally Robson spoke. "Everybody back away." he said very calmly. When there was some hesitation, he continued: "Do it." The other vampires walked back to where they had been very slowly. Robson looked up at Spike. "I've heard a lot of stories about you."

"Yeah." Spike slowly muttered.

"One of them was that the Army brainwashed you so that you would spare humans and kill us."

Spike realized the spot that he was in again. He let go of Robson. "They tried."

Robson made no movement to retaliate. "Last few years we've heard you were fighting for the good guys." he whispered coolly. "Was that a lie?"

Spike gave a very harsh laugh. "Who do you think I am; that pufta Angel? Saving the world's his bloody racket, not mine."

Robson walked a few feet away from Spike. "So you're still on our side?"

"Wouldn't be here if I wasn't." Spike had always been a master of the bald-faced lie.

"Well, there's a job that needs be done--- something that's been a very big problem for us awhile." Slowly the other vamps began to nod at this. "Do this and you'll get in real good with the boss."

"This better not be anymore of that scut work shit."

"No, no, this is right up your alley." Robson slowly walked towards the window. "You see, this city has a huge homeless population. We've been using them for some manpower and, of course, food."

"You must be really desperate to be eating them," said Spike. "I mean, their blood is filled with all kinds of diseases and chemicals . Bloke could get sick on a regular diet of them."

Robson gave a smile. "We think of them as are own McDonald's. They're so easy to find and devour that we're willing to take whatever they've got in the secret sauce." His smile disappeared. "Our only problem is this costumed freak who, for some ungodly reason, has decided that protecting the tired and poor masses is his mission in life."

"The Batman takes time to fight for the homeless?" Spike said doubtfully.

Robson shook his head. "Same colors; different freak, calls himself Nightwing."

Spike rolled his eyes. "So it has come to this. Even the destitute have their own man in tights protecting them?"

"Not only that but he's a real pest. We've sent a dozen vamps to kill the son of a bitch, and he's managed to dust all of them." Robson put his hand on the window ledge. "Starting to really drain our manpower."

"So you want me to kill this arse?"

"No, no, no." Now Robson gave a small smile. "It would be an awful waste to lose such a formidable fighter. Our boss has a better idea."

Spike suddenly realized what they had in mind. "Your boss wants to turn this Nightwing bloke?"

"That is exactly what he wants." Robson's grin had become positively shark-like. "Think you're up to the task?"

And even though this was going to cause him no end of trouble, Spike gave what he hoped was an equally vicious smile in return.

"Just tell me when and where."


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Considering everything that had happened in Gotham City over the years, it was surprising that not until three years ago someone had begun the process of taking down the history of the city's seamy underbelly. For that matter, the only reason that an official record of events had occurred was because of another in a long line of tragic events in the city's history--- the shooting of Barbara Gordon, then known as Batgirl. Once the change of her role had been thrust upon her, she had begun to keep records not only of what was happening but of what had happened before--- though her information was based more on her own research and experiences rather than the material she had received from Batman.

Bruce Wayne had been keeping logs of his actions in Gotham almost since the beginning of taking the mantle of Batman, but most of those records were sparse and textbook like with little color or horror that actually came with these terrifying events. Part of this was because his incredible memory and intellect made knowing only the bare bones essential for his work; his mind could easily fill in the rest, but most of this was for the sake of his own sanity. To look too deeply into the abyss that his city would be enough to drive a man to madness--- a place that he was close to on a regular basis anyway. For the sake of being able to maintain the stoic face that he needed to protect Gotham City, he did all that he could to keep this to himself.

That had all changed five years ago when a chemically-enhanced madman known as Bane had attempted to destroy him--- and had come damn close to doing it. By arranging a prison break at Arkham and releasing nearly all of the horrible men and women that the asylum had stored, Bane had managed to slowly and efficiently wear down as well as physically and mentally exhaust the considerable energy and fortitude that Batman possessed. Then, when he was at his weakest, the criminal, fueled by a powerful substance known as Venom, had attacked, fought, and left Bruce Wayne paralyzed.

Had Gotham City known what had happened to him that night everything that Bruce had worked for almost fifteen years would have fallen apart. The only reason it did not was because he had taken a huge risk and given the mantle to another man—Jean-Paul Valley and told him to continue his work.

Even though he had no choice, it was a huge error. Though physically up to the challenge, Valley was not capable of restraining his violent impulses. As he would later hear second- hand through Barbara Gordon and Tim Drake, Valley had suffered the equivalent of a mental breakdown, believing that he--- and he alone--- was Batman. By the time Bruce had recuperated from his injuries, Valley had become so ensconced in his role that he refused to relinquish it. It had taken a lot of time and energy for Bruce to defeat Jean-Paul--- so much so that after he emerged victorious, he had briefly--- but seriously--- considered giving up the mantle of Batman. Eventually he did, but only after a serious realization about how much he was truly drawn to the kind of violence that he had told himself he deplored.

He had since made himself more open to help--- he had given Tim more responsibility and allowed greater access than he had the two other men who had borne the Robin's outfit. He had managed to work out an understanding with Dick even though they rarely saw eye to eye, and even after Barbara had been shot, she continued to provide an invaluable service as Oracle. He valued the intelligence that she gathered from the city tremendously, but to a certain extent he was more grateful for her agreeing to begin keeping longer and more in-depth records of what had happened before, during, and after her coming on to the scene as Batgirl. The more he reflected on it, he was beginning to realize the truth behind a statement Eugene O'Neill had made long ago: "There is no present or future—only the past happening over and over again now."

Despite everything that had happened over his long experience as Batman, he still believed the only time he had ever felt overwhelmed by the situation in Gotham had been after the asylum break five years ago. Now as he looked at his screen over the city of Gotham as he rode in the Batmobile towards Crime Alley, it was with genuine concern that he was beginning to feel that it was going to happen again.

"Have you made any progress as to what's happening on Third?" Batman was talking to Oracle as she monitored the city from the clock tower. The small tremor in his voice would have been unnoticeable even to those who knew him very closely, but for someone whose iron-clad stoicism was his trademark, it was a very big sign as to how unsettled he was becoming.

Barbara must have noted it, but there was no sign in her voice. "It appears that two of the low-level gangs are involved in a firefight."

"Where are the police?"

"They tried getting over there ten minutes ago but nearly got shot to pieces."

"Who seems to have the advantage?"

"That's just it," said Oracle unbelievingly. "I don't think either of them does. According to my source, they've been shooting at each other for an hour but nobody's dropped yet. So either they're really bad shots or---"

"We've got two undead street gangs," Batman shook his head. "Where the hell is Faith?" The level of disdain in his voice was a lot more marked than his earlier fright.

"According to Andrew, she's trying to handle a nest near WayneTech. "

"She hasn't been in contact with you?" he asked, now sounding openly hostile.

"We've had this discussion about keeping in contact before," Barbara was starting to sound pissed as well. "According to her, slaying is not something that can be interrupted by constantly phoning home."

The familiar mixture of irritation and fury that Batman felt towards the Slayer was beginning to arise again. "That's her attitude even when innocent people's lives are at stake?"

Oracle's tone abruptly became more sympathetic. "According to her, innocent lives are always at stake, and sometimes you have to pick and choose no matter what the consequences may be."

This was close enough to home that Batman felt some of his hostility subside. "Have the gangs changed their targets to the other building yet?" he asked abruptly.

"Not yet but I can't imagine that remaining the status quo," said Barbara. "How far out are you?"

"Less than five minutes," he answered. "But these two incidents aren't our only problems."

"I'll get in touch with Robin and Nightwing," Barbara said. "But they're pretty busy too. Gotham City's becoming hotter every day. We can't keep putting out fires."

"I know that," said Batman. "We have to figure this out." He paused. "All of us."

Batman wasn't happy about having to ask for outside help when he contacted the Watchers Council, and when he heard how Faith had beaten up five criminals in order to introduce herself, he became even less enthusiastic about doing so. The only person less pleased about what had happened was Jim. Indeed, if you had asked Gordon what bothered him more--- the fact that his city was now being menaced by vampires or the fact that he had to rely on an ex-felon for help destroying the menace--- Bruce wasn't sure what the answer would be.

The others in the small circle of crime-fighters were far less distraught about the idea. Dick had been sold on Faith after seeing her take out a gang of vampires who had been terrorizing part of his neighborhood. Tim— Bruce wasn't sure, but he thought that his young ward was halfway in love with her. He had certainly been more than willing to fill her in on some of the more obvious ugliness in Gotham.

Barbara was initially impressed by her work—but when she did some high level hackings to find out just why she had been arrested, she became nearly as upset as her father. They were even less happy to find that Andrew Grusynzski, the 'Watcher' that they had sent with Faith, had a rap sheet as well. However, Faith had been adamant in saying she was going to 'handle the vamp problem in Gotham with or without the caped ones help".

Dick, who had seen her in action and had sparred with her, was convinced that she could fight him to a draw. Batman, who hadn't wanted to make contact with this woman until he absolutely had to, now realized that he would have to size her up himself before determining how to handle her.

To see that the meeting didn't go well would have been like calling Gettysburg a minor skirmish. Batman could tell right away that Faith was itching for a fight. He decided that he would keep this conversation direct and to the point.

"Gotham City has a vampire problem," he had stated when they met on the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse that the Penguin had once considered his territory.

"Gee, what gave it away?" The dark-haired women had asked sarcastically. "The fact that dead people kept showing up with puncture marks on their necks or that corpses kept vanishing from the morgue?"

The conversation went downhill from there. Even though they agreed on the basic problem--- that Gotham City was teaming with undead and someone needed to handle it--- they were absolutely divided on the approach. Batman had wanted an organized plan of attack so that he and his people could keep the vampire menace in check. Faith clearly wanted their assistance in handling the criminal end of the enterprise but as to handling the vampires themselves, she preferred to fly solo. Batman was astonished by her nerve.

"This is my city," he said. "These creatures are violating it and the last thing I need is some loose cannon creating more chaos."

Faith had looked at him as if he had to be joking. "First of all, _you've _got a problem with a lone vigilante fighting evil in this city? They didn't tell me you were funny." Before he had a chance to react to this, she hurried on: "I understand that Gotham is your territory. I also think that if any normal person on this earth is capable of handling this vampire threat on his own, it is you."

Batman hadn't been (and still wasn't) sure if he had been complimented or insulted. "I've been handling crime in this city for nearly twenty years," he said brusquely.

"Yes, and for that you should be commended," Faith's voice had taken a condescending tone that Batman did not care for at all. "But let me make this absolutely clear. You are human. Vampires are not. They are very capable of outthinking, outwitting and outlasting anybody who has a pulse. Even if they weren't, my guess is that there are hundreds in Gotham City right now. You go in against a big enough group of them unprepared---" Faith trailed off. "If you're lucky, they will only kill you."

"And if I'm not?"

She fixed him with a stare. "I think you know what will happen if you're not."

Batman knew what she was implying and had decided to try a different tack. "I've done a bit of reading about vampires and vampire Slayers. "

Faith looked surprised. "That's strange considering that most of the books on it have been destroyed or are out of the reach of most people."

Batman knew this too but wasn't about to tell her that Bruce Wayne's wealth and prestige had managed to ferret out some of the more obscure books from some of the darkest corners of the earth. "I understand that the Slayer is imbued with some kind of superhuman power."

"That's one way of putting it," Faith had spoken with a wryness that Bruce figured only a Slayer could understand.

"I also read that even with this power, they don't live for very long."

She had been quiet for a moment. "One can only fight the armies of the undead for so long before you eventually get beaten."

"What are the odds that you won't get killed before you're finished here?"

"I don't know," said Faith. "What are the odds that one of the hundreds of criminals in Gotham won't manage to kill you?" Before Batman could respond, she had added. "The numbers are lousy but----" She fumbled for a word for a moment, "people like us can't think about what might happen. We have to fight in the now." She had looked at Batman. "You don't like me. You don't trust me. That's alright. I don't like or trust you much either, but right now we are fighting against the same enemy and that's all that matters. So the choice is simple: we live together or we die apart."

Having it stated so plainly; Batman realized that Faith was right, but he also knew that she wasn't telling him everything. Therefore, he couldn't completely trust her and her friends; and therefore, he couldn't let her in all the way. So he had asked her to demonstrate her skills on some real vampires and help tell him and his colleagues what they needed to know.

Watching her fight was impressive. Her basic technique was unplanned and rough, but she moved and fought with a grace and swiftness that Batman had only seen from the highest ranked martial arts masters. He had used a miniature camera to film her in action and was, after several hours of intense viewing, able to comprehend the power and energy required to kill a vampire. Combined with research he had been doing since he had identified the problem and a few minor adjustments to his utility belt, three days after Faith had arrived in town Batman knew how to kill a vampire.

Actually being able to do it was another story. Despite the fact that he knew vampires were already dead and that they would kill him if he did not kill them first, all his years of training made it difficult to overcome what had been the most important principle of his life as a superhero: I will not take a life. Furthermore, after seeing Faith in action for just a few minutes, he knew something for a certainty: she got off on it. Only a little but it was obvious that she did. Considering how close the darkness in him was to the surface, he was very reluctant to cross this particular threshold. In the end, he had no choice. There was no such thing as incapacitated vampire.

The first one had been the hardest. Using a thermal imaging device, he had gone locating a particularly mean one in Crime Alley. The vampire was clearly impressed with his own abilities and had gone right at him. Batman had incapacitated him with a flash grenade then hit him with a test tube filled with water from one of the biggest churches in Gotham. The vamp had been down but not out. He had made one more run at Batman, at which point Batman had pulled out a stake and stabbed the vamp in the heart. The look of surprise on the vamp's face was something that he didn't think he would ever forget. For the barest of instants he thought that he was going to be sick but it quickly passed. The fact that the vampire turned to dust helped a great deal. He didn't know if he would have been able to do this if he had climb over the bodies of vamps he had taken out.

In the six days since then Batman had staked forty-five vampires. During the same week Tim and Dick had become nearly as efficient at staking vampires as Faith was. They had become so effective that Bruce didn't think that they required the services of Faith and her team any longer. However, he had gotten a good read on Faith and he knew that unless he challenged her to a fight and defeated her, she was not going anywhere. For that matter, he wasn't certain that if he beat her in a fight that she'd go. He had seen the look of determination in her eyes. It was the look of someone who did not accept defeat—no matter whose hands it came by.

So Batman had accepted that Faith and her people were going to be in Gotham for awhile and that he and his friends were going to have to work with them. It did not, however, mean that he was going to let Faith, Andrew, and the mysterious character known as William (who Batman had only heard about second-hand and wasn't sure that he trusted) in all the way. None of them had even a hint of what Bruce Wayne's relationship to Batman was--- they had only met with him in locations pre-picked by him. When Faith went on one of her 'patrols' she was always followed from a discreet distance by Robin or Nightwing. Similarly, Oracle had not given Andrew (who Bruce assumed was Faith's Watcher) access to the technology and resources that she had assembled. She had also not revealed the reach that Barbara Gordon had in the city.

Unfortunately, this part of Oracle's plan had backfired when Andrew had realized her masquerade three days before. The problem was magnified tenfold when nearly simultaneously Faith had told Nightwing that she did not like being followed while she worked. The young man had shown a righteous indignation that neither Barbara nor Bruce had thought he was capable of. He had then made a demand so outrageous that (even as she was paying lip service to it) she was tremendously tempted to call him on it. She was only stymied when Faith had told Dick that she agreed with Andrew's demand one hundred percent. When Batman heard it, he was just as astonished. However, having done some research on the company that they worked for, he believed that Angel-Slayer was capable of carrying it out.

"Do you know what will happen to this city if it comes out that we gave in to blatant extortion?" Barbara had asked incredulously.

"I know that," Bruce had then said the next words with great reluctance. "But I also know what will happen to this city if it gets out that we are unable to handle Gotham by ourselves."

"So you're going to give them what they want?"

Batman had thought for a few seconds before answering. "Not all of it." He had then laid it out for Barbara. They would allow the Angel-Slayer people more access to Oracle's records then they had been given. They would also allow Faith to patrol the city by herself while the other major crime fighters in the city were in different sectors of Gotham. However, Faith would keep in touch with Batman through a scrambler phone designed by WayneTech--- which also had a tracking device Batman had designed. Similarly, Andrew's searches through the communications of law breakers ad law enforcers alike would be monitored by Bruce through a trapdoor program that he and Barbara had designed years before.

"Isn't there a chance that they'll figure out that we've been playing with them and they'll get even more pissed?" Tim had asked.

"Both of these safeguards are so well disguised that it'll be a while before they figure out something's amiss." Bruce had said. "Hopefully, by the time that they do we will have figured a way to work around them."

"That's a big risk to take."

"Right now, we have much bigger problems than offending the people we're working with." Bruce had grimly countered. "We need to get a handle on Gotham. They know how to do it. Anything else has to be secondary."

In the past week everything had been working efficiently. Vampire activity in Gotham had slowed dramatically. The 'vampire like slayings' that had been filling the papers for weeks became less and less of a story as the general vampire population got under control.

Unfortunately, the problems with the vampire-related syndicate activities had been getting noticeably worse. The deaths of the gangsters and enforcers in the city had fallen almost to nothing over the past couple of weeks, but Batman was sure that this was because the man in charge of those murders--- whoever he was --- had finished with that part of his plan and was now on to far more subtle manipulations.

Efforts to gain any further information about this vampire kingpin --- Nicholae--- were not going well. William had made contact through Andrew, before he had set up shop with Oracle, and had told him that he had managed to get in with one of the lower-downs on the food chain. However, that was the last time anyone had heard from him in a week. Andrew had told the others that William was in deep cover and had to maintain silence. Tim had asked Andrew if William was reliable who had answered by saying that 'cloak and dagger was something he had perfected.' No one had been comfortable with that but Bruce realized they had no choice, at least for now.

Worse still, they couldn't afford to give this their full attention. The break at Arkham had brought back unpleasant memories for a lot of people. The search for the seven inmates had procured a mixed degree of success. Four of the inmates--- including the Holiday Killer and the Ventriloquist--- had been recaptured, but two of the ones still free--- Two-Face and Maxie Zeus--- were making a lot of trouble.

The one who everybody was most afraid of--- the Joker--- had been very quiet. In fact, no one had even seen the man since his escape. This did not allay Batman's fear in the slightest. If the city was a tinderbox, the Joker could very likely be the match that set it off.

Everyone in the small circle of crime fighters/vampire killers was sure that the break from Arkham had been arranged by Nicholae, but whether it was part of his larger plan or merely a distraction no one was sure. Having gone through something like this five years ago, Batman was pretty sure that it was more the former than the latter. What he didn't know (and was very concerned about) was whether he was the one Nicholae was trying to keep occupied or if he was trying to flush out Faith and Angel-Slayer.

The problem was, Batman thought to himself as he parked the Batmobile and prepared to wade into the undead street fight that was taking place in front of him, Nicholae was doing a brilliant job of keeping everybody so busy that they had almost no time to think, and being in that state nearly twenty-four seven was dangerous for everybody concerned.

Upon the arrival of Batman, both street gangs looked up from the rampage of violence they were currently raining down on Third Avenue. Batman did a quick head count--- eleven vampire gang-bangers were shooting at each other. In the ten seconds it took for them to realize that they were no longer alone, they fired off eight shots, three of which hit flesh. It was clear that they had moved beyond attacking each other and were taking their violence out on the neighborhood.

A tall man with dyed red hair and a tattoo of a skull on the back of his leather jacket was the first to react. "Well, if it ain't the Batmunch!" He laughed scornfully as he began to walk over. "I'm betting that he's come to break up our little get-together."

"Well, guess we better do what every skell in this sinkhole town does," said a Hispanic gang-banger with a huge rip in his shirt, "and get the fuck out of his way! Otherwise we'd be setting a bad example for the kiddies!"

As was his way Bruce gave no sign that he had heard anything the gang members had said; he merely continued his silent approach. He felt the coolness of the Batman flow through him as he prepared to fight.

"Uh-oh!" said the first gang-banger. "Looks like he's pissed off at us!" He clapped his hands together. "How 'bout we show this wannabe what a real Batman is ----"

Suddenly he and three of the gang members closest to Batman gave a scream of pain. In the time they had spent mocking him, Batman had hurtled a flash grenade. The four of them had caught the brunt of the fire. This didn't kill any of them but it hurt them enough so that their faces had changed.

Batman preferred killing vampires when their evil was obvious.

Upset that their party was being spoiled, the vampires began firing at Batman. Unfortunately for them, it took ten seconds and twenty bullets to realize the Kevlar part of his suit made their shots as useless on him as they were on them. Even more unfortunately, in those ten seconds Batman unclipped two test tubes filled with holy water from his utility belt and threw them at the vamps. Three of the vampires took the brunt of the liquid in the face and began to howl in agony. One took so much fluid that his face was nearly burned off.

"Get--- that---- bast---" the vamp managed to yell before the Batarang that Bruce had thrown cut the rest of his head off his neck. He dissolved into dust.

Some of the smarter vampires began to run away. Batman had no intention of letting any more of them do so. He went to his belt one more time and removed the customized weapon he had made a week earlier--- a combination stake-stiletto.

Suddenly he was moving swiftly and fluidly (almost Slayer-like, in point of fact). Four of the remaining vampires had been so badly burned and scarred by the first two assaults that they were almost defenseless. They fought hard nevertheless, but in five minutes he and his stiletto had turned them into dust in the wind.

Batman looked up to see that only three vampires remained. They all charged him, trying to make a wall of bodies that not even the Bat could penetrate.

He leapt at the vampire, and with a series of jujitsu punches and kicks had managed to separate them into individual vamps. He then drove his stiletto through their chests: one, two, three.

Batman looked around to find himself alone which was probably for the best. Fighting and killing seven vampires in ten minutes is a difficult task if you're a Slayer and can reduce even the most finely conditioned superhero to near exhaustion.

As he exhaled, he suddenly heard the sound of sarcastic applause. "Well done, old man," said a heavily accented voice. "The way you handled those blokes it almost looked as if you knew what you were doing."

For a split second Batman was sure that this was the Joker using one of the fake foreign accents he would sometimes affect, but even before he turned around he knew this was not the case.

It was a tall, young man in his twenties with bleached blond hair and a long (almost cape-like) leather duster. He wasn't the Joker but Batman didn't drop his fighting stance--- there was something not quite right about him.

"Of course, your technique is fundamentally flawed," the blond-vamp said briskly. "Against those two-bit thugs your box of tricks 'ill work alright but a real vampire," he shook his head, "you're gonna come up a bit short."

"Who are you?" Batman asked forcefully.

"Who are you?" the blond vamp countered. Before Batman could respond, he held up his hands and said: "I know, I know; secret Identity rule. Lone Ranger never takes off his mask."

A very plausible idea had just occurred to Batman. "Are you Nicholae?"

The vampire let out a cackle that was just a little too Joker-like for Bruce's taste. "Oh, I'm flattered you think I'm so capable, guv' but I'm not the man you're looking for." Suddenly he grew serious. "Even when I was a big bad, I was never that ambitious."

Batman was started to get a little sick of this dance. "What is your name?" he hissed.

"My name? It used to be William the Bloody. Now it's just Spike," The vampire took out a cigarette and put in his mouth. "And you and I need to have a chat."


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Spike knew that he was taking a huge risk by going to see Batman. If a vampire spotted him--- not even necessarily one in Nicholae's army--- he was as good as dust. But he also knew that it had to be done. Considering what Robson had demanded of him two days ago, he was not going to be able to move forward if he didn't make contact with the men in tights that were trying to run Gotham City.

He had managed to buy some time from this colonel in Nicholae's army by saying that he was a lot more subtle when he carried out his business, whether it was killing a Slayer or turning a superhero.

"Going straight at these guys is a sure way to get yourself staked," he had told Robson. "You've got to take a scientific approach to handling your problems." He had paused then. "That's something that your boss obviously knows very well. You've got to take time."

It had been a big risk to take but Robson clearly agreed with this school of thought. "But you don't take forever at it," Robson had countered. "The boss is patient, but not that patient. When he gives an order he wants it carried out. He wants it done right, but he wants it done." He then handed out a deadline: one week from tonight, along with the proviso that someone from the gang monitored him.

Fortunately, Spike had managed to convince Robson that Nestor would be more than suitable for the job at hand. There was clearly some doubt about this, but Spike had managed to reassure the hierarchy that he was comfortable working with Nestor and that he would insure success.

In point of fact, Spike had selected the Southern-fried vamp because he considered him the least likely to impede him in his overall plan. Nestor's innate faith in Spike, combined with his mule-headed stupidity would guarantee him a free hand to do whatever he needed to in order to pull this off.

Spike didn't intend to play him for a complete fool. His first actions had been what he would have done when he had been evil to take out a major threat. He had gone to a couple of places where Nightwing protected the tired and poor of Gotham (which, not at all coincidentally, were only a few blocks away from Robson's headquarters) and watched how the young crime-fighter handled the vampire menace. Then tonight, he told Nestor to get a high-powered video camera and film Nightwing fighting a vampire. He had then gotten a message to Andrew warning Faith to take cover for the next few days. (He was pretty sure that Nicholae knew the Slayer was here, but he wanted to maintain the deception as long as he possibly could.) He had then told Nestor that he was going to do some 'scouting' of the other crime fighters in Gotham --- "We're going to be tackling the Men in Black pretty soon after we deal with this Nancy Boy", he had told Nestor, "and I'd like to see how one bat handles another."

Like many of his lies, this one had a grain of truth in it. Spike _did _need to see how Batman could handle the ranks of the undead--- with any luck, he was going to be fighting alongside the man in the near future, and he needed to see if he really could handle the vamps.

Well, he had seen it and there were some things he didn't like. Things that might get the Batman killed. But he would work up to that.

"You did a pretty good job of killing those vamps," Spike said, choosing his words deliberately "but there are some flaws in your technique that you've really got to get a handle on before you tackle the big bad."

For a microsecond, when Spike had said 'killed', he thought that the Batman flinched. It was so small a thing that even someone who picked up on the smallest details would have missed it completely.

To his credit, Batman's gaze remained completely neutral. "Who are you to give advice on handling vampires?" he said coldly.

Spike intended to hold off revealing what he was for as long as possible. "I'm just someone who's had a bit of experience handling these creeps," Spike said just as coolly.

"Really?" said Batman skeptically. "It wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that you're a vampire yourself?"

Apparently, 'that long' had been five minutes. "And how do you know I'm one?"

"Your color's all wrong; it's just above freezing, you're not even showing a sign that you're cold, and, finally, you've been standing there five minutes and you haven't taken a single breath."

"Impressive," Spike admitted. "Guess you are as smart as everyone says you are."

"And since you're a vampire," Batman carried on "why shouldn't I end your existence, too?"

"Fancy words, 'ending my existence', " Spike said coolly. "Half the vampire hunters I know would have used the word 'kill' by now." He fixed Batman with a gaze. "Any reason you haven't?

Batman could go head to head with Buster Keaton for stoicism. "Gotham City is infested with the undead and you're bringing up semantics?" he managed coolly.

"It ain't semantics, Bat." Now Spike was openly speaking disdainfully. "This comes down to the absolute essence of what you're doing. This is ugly death and you need to be able to face ---"

Suddenly Batman had him by the lapels and was right in his face. "You still haven't answered my question." Batman was practically snarling now.

Spike continued to maintain his equilibrium. "And you still haven't answered mine. However," he said hurriedly as Batman pulled out his stake "…since this is your city and all, I'll go first. You shouldn't kill me because I'm Faith's friend."

"That's not exactly the best reference you could use." Batman spoke harshly but he eased his grip slightly

'And I have an idea what Nicholae's gang is going to do next."

Batman thought this over for a few long moments, then finally let go of Spike completely. "Start talking." he said in a quieter tone.

"I'm not close enough to know all the details but I do know this much" Spike gathered himself. "The big thing about this bloke is he believes in control. His thugs have control over the streets of Gotham; he's got a good grip on the underbelly of the city. And at the center of his plan, he wants control of you."

"No one is ever going to control me as long as I'm drawing breath."

"Funny," Spike said with a small smile. "I think that's exactly what he'd have to do to gain that control."

Ever since Batman had become aware of the threat in Gotham City, he had suspected that something like this might be at the center of the vampire's plan. Nevertheless, learning this was true still gave him a hell of a turn--- so to speak. "So the plan is making me a vampire." he said slowly.

Spike's smile had disappeared. "That's the bulk of it, yeah."

"Does he really think that he can just walk up to me and drain my blood?" Batman spoke almost casually.

Spike shook his head. "Like I said, I don't know all the details I know that these evil plans are never as simple as they sound."

"And as a vampire you know all about evil plans."

Spike shrugged. "I've heard my share of them. Couple of times I've even thought 'em up."

"Which brings up my next question: why should I trust you?"

"I told you whose side I was on." Spike said coolly.

"Yes, but you're still a vampire." Batman spoke just as calmly.

"Look mate" Spike started fishing around in the pockets of his duster for another cigarette "I know the impression that you've gotten of vampires over the past few weeks hasn't been positive, and even if it was better, you'd still have trouble believing me. "

"But?" Batman sounded almost placid--- like he had for most of their dialogue. Spike, however, knew how false a façade it was.

"But there are a few vampires who really on the side of truth, justice and----" Spike paused. "Wait, that's the other bloke." He shrugged and put a cig in his mouth. "Anyway, there are some of us who are good guys."

Batman clearly didn't believe him. "How many?"

"Two." Spike said honestly. " And you're talking with one of them."

"So you're a good vampire." Batman said doubtfully.

Spike lit his smoke. "None of us are absolutely good anymore than we are absolutely bad" he said as he took a drag. "You're not going to tell me that your soul is as pure as the driven snow, are you?"

Again for a fraction of a second Spike thought that he saw Batman flinch before he spoke. "None of us are without sin, William," he said in a positively glacial tone. "However, I'm relative certain that my sins do not involve the slaughter of women and children."

For an alarming second Spike was certain that the Bat had somehow managed to unearth his secret identity. Then he realized that Batman had far more likely that he had deduced his name through Faith and that he had simply assumed that Spike, like most vampires, had a long record of bloodshed behind him. He also realized that, cape and cowl aside, Batman was first and foremost a detective and any cop worth his salt was a good psychologist.

Regaining his poise, Spike fixed his look upon the Batman. "I won't pretend that my crimes weren't ugly," he said in a smooth tone. "Nor will I pretend that there hasn't always been and will always be a monster inside me."

"How does that make you better than any of the vamps I just took care of?"

"Because, unlike those vamps you just killed, I recognize the evil that I have done." Spike said with a hint of pain in his voice. "I regret every life that I took, every sin that I have committed. My desire for repentance and reprieve is genuine, and probably more real than three-quarters of the blokes you end up throwing in prison. More so," he tossed his half-finished cigarette on the ground, "because I know I can never get it."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm doomed, Bat." Spike used the nickname with a tinge of irony. "I could save a thousand lives, kill a thousand demons, doesn't make a difference. I am damned to the darkest part of the hottest hell for what I have done. There is not enough soap in the world to wash the blood off my hands."

Batman considered this with his usual stoicism. "Then why are you doing any of this?"

Spike looked at the Batman as if he were a fool. "Because everything we do matters. I realize that now. I may not be able to redeem myself but I have to work for redemption regardless. Because good and evil are all that matters in the end. And good needs all the help it can get." He smiled slowly and painfully. "You know that too, don't you?"

For a flash--- Spike was beginning to realizes these flashes were the only ways Batman could allow himself to show any emotion--- he thought that he saw a look of empathy on the Caped Crusader's face. Then it was gone like all the others.

"Assuming that I accept what you say as true" said Batman reluctantly "how could someone like you help me."

He'd come a long way just to get right back where he started but Spike plowed ahead regardless. "For starters, you could accept the fact that you're dealing death."

Batman shook his head. "Let's be clear about one thing, Spike. "

There was a level of disdain in the use of his name that the blond vamp wouldn't have thought anyone beside Angel was capable of . "I am not killing these things. You can't kill something that's already dead."

"You can pretty up however much you'd like." Spike said. "You are still ending their existence. I don't care what culture or religion or whatever you belong to; that's death. And you've got to recognize that."

Batman was silent for a few moments. "Why? Because you say so?"

"No. So you understand what you're doing," Spike said patiently. "My kind doesn't have any room for gray. It's either black or white; kill or be killed. In order for a vampire slayer to survive, she has to understand that too. And if you don't accept that, your fancy technology and high-style martial arts won't stop them from snuffing you out."

"Five minutes ago you said that these vampires weren't going to kill me," Batman rejoined.

"I said that was Nicholae's plan, and it is. But someone who isn't as bright as him is going to take you on regardless and they can be just as relentless as he is." Spike thought for a second. "More, because they're such idiots."

"You're saying their stupidity makes them more dangerous?" Batman asked with a hint of bemusement.

"Aside from the ultra-nasties and crime bosses, how many truly intelligent criminals do you think there are in Gotham City?" Spike didn't bother to wait for an answer. "The dumb ones don't know how tough you really are so they keep trying to get you. And because their numbers are so large, one of them will eventually get lucky, " He turned to the left, looking to the horizon. "Quantity eventually triumphs over quality. That's lesson the second."

Batman gave no outward sign of it but Spike thought he sense the slightest sign of agreement. "And I suppose lesson the first is: Never forget you deal in death." the caped one said softly.

Spike nodded. "Very good. Almost poetic. You surprise me, Bat."

"Stop calling me that."

"What, Bat? Well, seeing as you're wearing that mask and you haven't offered me a real name I'm making do with what little I got."

A modest smile appeared on his face. "Unless of course, you'd like to open up and--- "

"Not a chance."

He sounded so pissed that Spike winced. "Crap, I thought only Slayers could sound that cold." He shrugged. "In any case, that's neither here nor there. The issue before you is simple: you understand that you are killing these vampires."

"I just said I did." Batman was beginning to sound impatient.

"Saying and doing are different things, Mr. Bat. So let me put it like this." Suddenly all the fun had disappeared from Spike's voice. "Do you understand that you have just killed eleven vampires?"

There was yet another pause. This one, however, lasted a lot longer than the others. Batman was still in the shadows so Spike could not see the expression on his face. He didn't think it would have been radically different from before in any case--- Spike was pretty sure Batman never smiled; it was part of the whole dark hero package--- but he was pretty sure that Batman was really considering what he said.

Finally, he stepped forward--- not into the light but enough so that Spike could see his eyes. 'I understand that I have finished killing something that was almost dead. They don't fit the biological definition of being alive but they are no longer alive in any form. That enough?"

Spike thought for a few seconds. "It'll do. Now that you've got this down, its time we move on to the next important issue: mainly what happens next in re our mutual foe."

"What do you know about Nicholae?" Batman sounded almost business-like.

"Like I said. I haven't met the bloke. Vamp has isolated himself completely from whatever it is his flunkies are doing. He's got a real good chain of command and right now I'm so far down it I still couldn't get anywhere near him."

"You haven't seen him." It wasn't a question.

"Not only have I not seen him I don't know anyone at my level who _has_ seen him," Spike shook his head. "That's the weirdest part of this whole thing."

"I don't follow."

"Vamps aren't mafia dons, Bat. They don't care if they get caught robbing the orphanage and flying to Tahiti. Good vamp wants everybody to know that he is in charge; that means showing everybody what a bad-ass you are." Spike shook his head. "You don't do that; you got no cred with your own crew; let alone the rest of the streets."

"Yet this Nicholae is still inspiring fear and loyalty."

"I'll say. No one even makes jokes about trying to double cross the bastard." Spike shook his head in memory. "It's like they're afraid he'll come out of the shadows and rip their lungs out."

Batman thought about this. "Where do you think you are in their organization?"

"Right now, one step removed from lickspittle," Spike said. "Even the guy that I report to only meets with Nicholae occasionally. Most of the time, he just talks with someone on the phone and passes on instruction from someone else."

"So how do you know that your orders are coming from the king vamp?" asked Batman.

For the first time Spike looked at Batman with dismay. "He can't carry out his mission by himself. He makes sure that every man-jack of us knows what the plan is. Otherwise, it would be just chaos." Spike brushed his hair back. "And the Prince likes order."

Batman considered this for several seconds. "Granting all this is true" he asked in a somewhat louder voice, " what part of his plan are you supposed to be carrying out? Taking care of me?"

"Yes, but indirectly. "

"How so?"

"I'm supposed to be handling you by committing as so callous and vicious it would draw some kind of reaction even from your stoicism."

Batman considered this. "Who do they want you to kill?" he asked frankly.

"Your friend the Nightwing." Spike was just as frank.

Now there definitely was a reaction; Spike was almost sure he had seen Batman wince. But like everything else about the man, it was gone nearly instantaneously. "When does he expect it done?"

"By the end of the week. Only he doesn't just want the Nightwing killed. He wants him turned also."

"He tends to turn all of this cities crime fighters into vampires?" Batman spoke with the slightest sound of curiosity in his voice.

"It's brilliant in its own way. Besides" Spike said wryly "a good number of the criminals of Gotham think the whole lot of you are something inhuman already."

"Forgive me if I don't find that amusing."

"Yeah, cause you're just a barrel of laughs normally. Look" said Spike "I've really enjoyed this conversation but I really do have to get moving."

"Why? Sunrise isn't for another four hours."

"Uh, right, but the people I work for expect me back in one." said Spike condescendingly. "In any case I didn't come to shoot the breeze. I came to tell you about what they want me to do and how I want to handle it."

"How do you intend to get around turning my friend?" Batman asked.

"Well, I've done some brainstorming and this is how I want to work it out." Spike then explained what he had in mind and what he wanted the parties concerned to do. "Is this possible?"

"What makes you so sure I would have the technology to do what you want?" Batman asked calmly.

Spike pointed at the Bat's waist. "That belt you're wearing has all kinds of nifty gadgets in it. My guess is you know more than your share about modern technology."

"You're not wrong." said Batman reluctantly.

"Answer the question."

Batman thought for a few seconds. " I believe that what your asking for is doable and I believe that I can do it. However, it will take some time to set things in motion."

"Well, we don't have a lot of that. I have four days left before they want to see ---" Spike trailed off "---results. Is that enough time?"

"It should be. But we have to get started now."

"Whoa, whoa." Spike put up his hands. "You want to arrange it with black and blue, do it on your own time. I can't afford to be seen with the forces of good any more that I already have been."

"So you're just going to leave the heavy lifting part of your plan to me." Batman sounded truly contemptuous now

"Hey, my arse is on the line here too, and they'd have a lot easier time taking me out of the picture than they would getting rid of you." Spike thought for a moment. "Though it would be a bit closer than it would seem."

Batman took a deep breath and turned back towards the Batmobile. "How will I be able to get in contact with you?" he said calmly.

"You won't." said Spike. "I'll be using backchannels. I'll contact you through Andrew. He'll handle the rest."

"You're not exactly winning me over that you're on the side of good here. There are at least a hundred ways that this can backfire."

There was no response to his statement. Batman turned around and found that Spike had disappeared into the night.

And even though what he had learned about Nicholae's operation didn't comfort him, that he didn't trust really trust the man he'd talked with, and that the problem he had described would cause him no end of troubles, a ghost of a smile crossed his face.

"So _that's _what it feels like." he said, bemused.


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

According to all of the major newspapers, the next to last day of the year was the coldest in Gotham. The temperature fell to three degrees below zero; combined with the wind chill, it felt like minus fifteen. The wind howled like a hungry child and the first major snowstorm of the year blanketed the city.

Vampires had mixed feelings about winter. On the one hand, the days were shorter so that meant that they could spend more time outside hunting the prey. On the other, the massive cold generally meant that fewer people walked the street which meant the pickings were even slimmer. Plus, there was the fact that most vampires--- the younger ones--- felt the cold as much as people did and were similarly inclined to stay inside and watch television.

Kotaski could barely tolerate such vampires. As one who had spent his formative years in the Carpathian Guard, he felt the cold no more than an Inuit would. When he had been a commander of a small army of vampires in Russia before the Decembrist Uprising, rumors had developed of one so strong and bloodthirsty that he would run through the Siberian nights stark naked. Hearing such tales would bring a smile to his face---- a visage which was not appealing even to other _nosferatu._ Only a buffoon would do something as childish and self-indulgent as that. And Kotaski was the consummate solider.

"How can you not wear a coat?"

Kotaski did not turn when he heard the voice of Prince Nicholae. He had known Nicholae for over four centuries, though he had not worked alongside him until the Serfs uprising in St. Petersburg under Alexander. There was a lot of respect and history between the two old vampires, which was the main reason he gave a small smile at his jape. If any of the lackeys under him had made such a remark, he would have cut their throats.

"I barely feel the chill," Kotaski said simply. "They call this winter, pah!!!" He spat onto the streets below. "It's not even freezing."

"Actually it is, at least according to the television." Nicholae gave a small smile of his own. "Not that I put much faith in that particular instrument. Ghastly thing."

"Even if it is freezing, this is not winter. These Americans do not even know what true cold is."

"You're thinking of the gulag again, aren't you?" At one point during the October Revolution Kotaski had ended up working as a prison guard in Siberia.

"They said that Siberia was so cold even the dead shivered." A small smile passed across Kotaski's face. "And, sometimes, they did." The smile disappeared. "Here in America, it's never that cold, even in the mountains. Yet these newborns can barely stand it. All the men we call soldiers--- bundled up like old women to do man's work."

"Only those as old as us no longer notice the cold." Now the cheerful look on Nicholae's face became pensive. "And those like us are few and far between."

Kotaski nodded. Having been a member of the guard at the height of Vlad the Impaler's reign of terror, he had once had several comrades who were as tough as he was but over the centuries… "Von Klatka, Vardalek, Iorga… all came to the end of the road. Dead at the hands of the Slayers."

Nicholae walked out onto the balcony of the apartment complex that held the center of his operation. Only he, Kotaski and a few select vampires knew of its location and Nicholae had been extremely careful to make certain that there was nothing to lead others to this building. On the rare occasion that he had left the complex, he had only done so via the various underground passages located in the basement. Most times Nicholae never even walked out onto the balcony for fear of being spotted by the wrong people, but the chill of the night would keep people off the street. Even in this case, he remained in the shadows.

"How many of the Guard did the Slayer kill?"

Kotaski looked at Nicholae strangely. Unlike most vampires that he had known in the five centuries he had survived, Nicholae was unique in that he rarely discussed the past. Not only did he refrain from discussing his failures, he abstained from discussing his triumphs, which had been manifold. The Carpathian briefly wondered what was troubling his superior's mind then shrugged it off and decided to simply answer the question.

"Several when we remained unified; many more after Tepes fell. Probably as many as seventy-five." Kotaski grimaced in remembrance.

"How many Slayers did it take?"

Kotaski thought. "I believe there were eight." He shook his head. "We kept killing them and they kept returning."

"'Once one falls, another rises.' That was the phrase I heard over and over. " Nicholae frowned. "They are the one check that keeps us from overrunning the earth. We can kill a hundred, a thousand, and that power will keep coming. You have no idea how many vampires I have known who thought they could be the one that stopped it. " He shook his head. "Even Henrich---- the only vampire in six hundred years who I ever feared---- held the same delusion and he met the same fate as all the others."

At this Kotaski could no longer contain himself. "Highness, if you are still concerned about the Slayer who has arrived in Gotham----"

"No, no, Kotaski." Nicholae shrugged him off. "It's true that this Slayer could pose a heavy obstacle to our coming success but she is only one girl. A powerful, deadly and possibly the greatest concern that we will face, but there is only one of her. It is what happens once we defeat her and we emerge triumphant over Gotham."

"You are afraid of the repercussions."

Nicholae nodded. "I have spent decades on my plan, waiting for time and location and circumstances to meet in exactly the right place.

Now when my plans are near fruition, I find myself worried about what happens after," He walked further out into the cold. "The Summers girl will challenge me, no matter what the consequences, and now she has an army of warriors all filled with the same powers and strengths as her." He paused. "The ensuing carnage could make St. Petersburg seem like a mere skirmish."

Kotaski would never admit it, but he shared the same concerns as his superior. They had made some extraordinary achievements in Gotham City over the past four months, and despite the work of the Batman as his friends and the arrival of the Slayer, they were within weeks of a triumph that would be almost unparalleled since the days of his first master. But once they had that power, what would come next? Even if Summers and the others in Los Angeles were unaware of their efforts now, they most certainly would not let the largest city on the East Coast fall to vampires without a fight. The only thing that could follow would be war---- total and without quarter and though Kotaski had faith that they would triumph, the casualties would be in the hundreds.

Despite his worries, he knew that for the right now there was only one approach that he could take. "We can not focus on the problems of the future, Highness, because we have no idea of what they will truly be. The only thing we can do is concentrate on the present and on what we have to do now to emerge victorious."

For a moment, Kotaski though that the Prince had not heard him. Then he lifted his head and gave a small smile. "As always Kotaski, you have the ability to bring things into perspective. Very well. Let us concentrate on the final stages of our venture here, which I hope are rapidly approaching." Nicholae began to walk off the balcony into the relative comfort of the indoors. "You have talked with all of our captains?"

"I have." Kotaski tried to keep the disdain out of his voice when he talked about the vampires that were now managing the underworld in Gotham City but some of it came through anyway.

Nicholae shook his head. "Kotaski, when will you get past this foolish prejudice against the people in this country? You have lived and fought among our kind on this continent for over a century and a half. You know that the vampires here are cunning and ruthless as anywhere else."

"I am aware of that, Excellency. But----" He shook his head. "Americans are not soldiers. They are soft and pliant by nature. They do not have the skill and tenacity---"

"--- 'to truly do battle in a war against the people.' Kotaski, how long must we have this same argument?" Nicholae spoke bemusedly. "How much longer will it take you to accept the Americans as they are?"

The smile on the Prince's face changed and became crueler. "In any case, the very softness and pliancy of the people is what will enable us to emerge victorious. So let us not fault the hand that we have been dealt." The smile disappeared. "We have strayed from the point again. Are our captains ready for the next step in our plan?'

"They are." The same cruel smile now appeared on Kotaski's face as he contemplated that next stage. "According to all of our forces, the roots for your plan have all but been put into place. All five of the major crime syndicates in this city now have at least one vampire within the chain of command. According to them, conflict among them has made the syndicates a tinderbox. All we need do is light the fuse."

"That's excellent. What about the other players in this town, the would-be arch-villains?" Now there was contempt in Nicholae's voice. Both commander and supreme general were in complete agreement about the semi-lunatics such as the Riddler and Two-Face--- that they defaced the true nature of evil with their activity.

"Five of those who were freed from Arkham earlier this month have been recaptured and placed in penitentiaries outside of the boundaries of the city. The one called Zeus has now agreed to ally himself with us."

Nicholae's eyebrow went up. "Really? How did we manage that particular miracle? Has he been turned?"

"No, to that we owe the assistant of Doctor Crane." Kotaski had enough respect for the scientist's ability to refer him by his Christian name.

"By use of one of his concoctions he was able to convince Zeus that I and our colleagues were servants of Lord Hades." The Carpathian shook his head in memory of it. "Zeus has said that he is willing to support our efforts in any way that we desire."

"Not a bad proposition."

"You are honestly considering dealing with that lunatic?"

"Zeus may be insane, but he is far from a fool. In any case, he has financial, criminal and political influence in and out of Gotham City. To have access to his resources could be a strong advantage," Nicholae put his hands together. "So much for those we set free. What about the ones that already have their freedom?"

"We have reached an understanding with most of the others. "Kotaski counted them off. "Cobblepot was not pleased with the inroads we were making on some of his more lucrative ventures, but he has been willing to negotiate. As you observed, he is more businessman than criminal. Our talks with Nygma have been cryptic---"

"--- as is his nature." said Nicholae slightly amused

"---- but he understands how the world works and the level of our numbers. He may not align with us, but neither will he interfere. "A small smile appeared on Kotaski's face almost despite himself. "Miss Kyle will not commit one way or the other, yet I do not think she is much of a loose cannon. Quite frankly I'm not sure why you had me talk with her. While she is a very charming lady, I don't think she ranks very high in the totem pole around here."

"Perhaps not, but she has influence in certain circles that may make her invaluable if we can find a way to work with her."

Kotaski thought his superior knew more about Selena Kyle's activities then he was letting on but he didn't press. He was about to deal with the least favorite of the people he had to deal with. "This leaves us with the question of the buffoon they call the Joker."

Nicholae frowned. "Have any of our men spotted this fool?"

Kotaski shook his head. "Say what you will about Joker's activities, he is remarkably good at keeping himself hidden. At least, he could if he were determined to remain elusive."

"How many more killings have there been since we last spoke?"

"Three more, all with the same punctures above the jugular." Now Kotaski frowned. "They also had that ridiculous trademark of his--- the lips drawn into that stupid smile."

Now Nicholae sighed. "That makes nine in the past eleven days."

"I'll never understand the logic of this fool. He demonstrates all the ability for slaughter that I have found lacking in some vampires. He has killed more people in his lifetime than some of us do in a decade. Yet he constantly leaves these corpses behind like bread crumbs. It's almost like he's daring us to catch him."

"That is because that is exactly what he wants."

Kotaski seems baffled. "Why? He must know that if we catch him we will destroy him."

"That's just it. He thinks we won't." Nicholae frowned. "He is convinced that every time he is captured by the authorities he will be left to fight another day and these fools in charge of policing this city have let him. The commissioner's daughter was paralyzed and his young wife shot in front of him, yet he still allowed the Joker to live."

"You are serious?" When Nicholae nodded, he burst out. "But that's lunacy! Even by the absurd standards of this country, the commissar could have killed him and had no fear of reprisal from the courts."

"It is an example of the softness and pliancy of these Americans. Joker feeds on it as we do blood. No doubt they believe that by sparing his life they are not giving into their lower impulses." Now a small grin started on Nicholae's face. "Fortunately, you and I have no such qualms."

A similar smile appeared on Kotaski's face. "Indeed." The smile disappeared. "Of course, this follows the presumption that we will be able to locate this lowly comic. "

"Are you saying that we have no idea as to his location?"

"We have found his hiding places occasionally but he has never been there when we arrived."

"There's no way to accelerate this process?"

"We do what we can, but the police and other law figures in Gotham have an interest in finding Joker as well, though for different purposes than ours. Since we have not yet begun the final phase, I have held our men back." Kotaski leaned forward. "Give the order and we shall hunt him down like the dog that he is."

Nicholae considered this briefly. "I think that we have reached the point where we can be more overt in our method." He nodded. "One thing, though. When you finally track him down, leave him alive. "

"You're sure of this?"

Nicholae nodded. "I intend to make an example of him to this city." Noting the Carpathian's disappointment, he added. "Buck up, Kotaski; I said I want him alive, not that I want him unhurt."

A gleam appeared in Kotaski's eyes. "I see, Excellency."

"So much for the law-breakers… that leaves the law-enforcers. How are we on that?"

"The police are putting up a false front, but it must be coming clear even to the layman that they have no real control over the crime in the city which would be less of a problem if they were the true bulwark of law enforcement." Kotaski shook his head. "Unfortunately, they are not."

"How goes the battle with those who hide their faces from us?" Nicholae tried to speak as if the answer was of no significance, when it fact the fact of the entire venture hung on it.

"The ones they call Robin and Nightwing are troublesome, almost like parasites feeding on a host. We have sent a dozen vampires against each of them and they have managed to defeat all of them. I have seen them in action from afar." Kotaski spoke with grudging praise. "They are formidable in combat but until now they have only sent newborns off to fight them."

"And how old are these mere children?" Nicholae spoke with more than a hint of sarcasm. 'Newborn' was a term that had been in common use in Kotaski's years in the guard. At the time, it was meant to refer to vampires who had only recently been sired. As the centuries had passed Kotaski had come to use it in the same way that old men referred to young ones--- it could mean from six months to sixty years.

"Most of them were sired while we have been in Gotham. However, four of the ones who fell had been around for at least thirty years. One of them, Navin, had been here years before we arrived in this town."

One of Nicholae's eyebrows went up. "Have there been any survivors of these confrontations?"

Kotaski nodded. "Several men fled the fight. They said that they were stronger in combat than any one they had fought in Gotham." The Carpathian scoffed. "Clearly none of them had ever been in London or Odessa, let alone served in the Guard."

"Again, you stray from the point, Kotaski, which is, how strong are these men?"

Kotaski considered this very seriously for several seconds. Finally he spoke. "The one they call Robin is young, barely out of his teens. He fights well, but I believe that if we send a greater number of soldiers he will fall to one of them. The one called Nightwing is more problematic. It is clear he has been fighting longer and uses a different method of battle. We have sent the one they call Spike to handle him, and he might be able to do the job…" The Carpathian paused, "if our trust in him is justified."

"We will deal with William momentarily. There are more pressing matters first," The Prince closed his eyes as if he did not want to face the people who came next. "Such as how do we deal with the Bat."

Kotaski shook his own head. This man had troubled him far more than adversary had in nearly a hundred years. "The way that he has fought against our forces, one could almost think he was one of us. That is how lithe and crafty this Bat truly is. He has been under siege by almost every action that we have taken in Gotham City in the past four months, yet he doesn't seem any weaker than the day we arrived. Fifty one of our men have gone into battle against him. Only four have survived to fight another day." Kotaski shook his head. "The only man I have ever known to have the strength and resilience of this Batman died at my hands in Vladivostok a century ago. Even then, it took a dozen of us to stop him."

"How many of our captains did we send in against him so far?"

"Gilliam, Samuel and McMurphy."

Kotaski paused before revealing the last name. Christopher McMurphy had been an old acquaintance of Nicholae's since the Roaring Twenties. He had expressed his admiration for the Irish man's fighting abilities often enough.

Nicholae considered this for almost a minute before speaking again. "The most ferocious vampire hunter I ever met was a man named Daniel Holtz. I crossed paths with him in Prague in 1769. We were both lucky to survive it."

Kotaski knew this was a tremendous understatement. Prague had been the site of a vicious battle between humans and vampires in September of 1769. Two hundred men had fought against fifty vampires, and in both cases they vastly underestimated their opponents' strength. Scarcely more than a quarter of each group managed to emerge from the conflict.

"Holtz was an extraordinary fighter. He fought with a ferociousness and purpose that I have seen in few _vampires_, let alone men." Now there was admiration in Nicholae's voice, a tone that Kotaski heard even less than pleasant nostalgia. "For two decades, he was the equivalent of the boogeyman to almost all vampires. There were only two who felt otherwise and they were the ones that inspired his hatred."

Kotaski knew this story too. "You mean Darla and Angelus."

Nicholae nodded. "I don't know how Holtz managed to cross paths with them and survive. I do know that the two of them tried to deter him from his course by murdering his family. In that they failed. If anything, the murders of his wife and children only inspired him to greater efforts."

Kotaski knew what Nicholae was driving at. "You are saying that the plan to destroy the Bat by taking away everything precious to him may end up working against us."

"Taking away his allies one by one may be enough to finally destroy him. But it may make him a more dangerous foe. As we will know, vengeance is a powerful motivator. And if he can deplete our numbers simply by doing his job…."

Nicholae trailed off and the soldier got his point. "Who shall we send to kill him?"

The Prince considered this for a moment. "There is only one vampire I know who can handle this, who has enough drive."

He gave a smile that Kotaski had come to know had only one interpretation. "When shall I begin, Excellency?" asked the Carpathian in a voice filled with pride.

"Obviously, there is still much that I will need you to do. Also it will probably aid you if his capacity for action has been severely depleted," Nicholae thought for a few minutes. "Three nights after we fire the first official salvo should be long enough to wait for you drive him to his knees."

"It will be sufficient. " Kotaski was almost going to rub his hands together when he remembered. "That leaves us with one final threat."

"The Slayer." For the first time, a hint of hesitation entered Nicholae's voice. "Has her identity been verified?"

Kotaski nodded grimly. "She is the one known as Faith, the second one who held the original power of the Slayer."

"And next to the Summers girl, the most dangerous woman alive."

If anyone else had said this Kotaski might have laughed. But he had seen the damage they had done on his comrades in the Guard. "Tales of this Slayer have been spreading across the underworld for six years." He said slowly. "They that during the War against the First she killed a dozen Turokhans."

"Even if she hadn't, she would be a dangerous adversary for her disposal of Kakistos."

"She destroyed him?" A sense of real fear began to tingle in Kotaski. Kakistos had been a vicious vampire hundreds of years before the Carpathian guard had been sired. "Then we may have even greater difficulties than we expected."

Nicholae shook his head and thought for several seconds. "As far as I know, there only three vampires in the known world who have killed more than one Slayer. " He pointed at Kotaski. "And you and I are two of them." Kotaski nodded. "How many slayers have fallen at your hands?"

Kotaski mentally counted. "Six." The Carpathian then made a confession that he would have only made to an elder vamp such as the Prince. "And each time it was never easy. It always took a lot of effort. The last one I had to skirmish with four times before I was able to snap her neck."

"Yes." Nicholae thought back. "That was before Kerensky fell, was it not?"

"Yes, while I was in Petrograd."

"As for myself," said Nicholae, "I have killed eight," Now he frowned. "But the last one was in Budapest almost two centuries ago. I have not faced a Slayer since." He shook his head. "Perhaps that's the reason I have survived so long."

"I would hardly call our existence over the past two hundred years mere survival." Kotaski sounded a little indignant.

"Nor would I. I doubt that any Slayer would have an easy time defeating either of us, but the fact remains, these Slayers are growing more cunning as the years pass. They are living longer and longer which means they also know how to survive."

"Are you saying that neither of us should kill this Slayer?"

Nicholae shook his head. "No, but perhaps we should not take any more risks than we absolutely have to. We must not die, not this close to the finish."

The germ of the idea that Kotaski had been contemplating for the past week finally came to him. "If I may be so bold, Excellency---"

"You have an idea."

Kotaski nodded. "The blond-haired one who calls himself Spike—"

"Your men have been keeping him at arms length, I trust," Nicholae chastened his subordinate.

"His access to our work is very limited. But perhaps we can make better use of him."

"The man is little better than an upstart," Nicholae said disdainfully.

"Yes, but he's also the third vampire still living who has killed more than one Slayer."

"Indeed." Now Nicholae was pondering. "Two Slayers in little then a century is impressive I admit, but what if the rumors are true?"

"That he has a soul? That he works with the enemy now?" Kotaski became bolder than he had been in a while with the Prince. "Perhaps it's true. But even it is, we might be able to control him. Other forces have."

Nicholae considered what Kotaski was suggesting. He thought he knew what the guardsman was talking about. There might be a way to handle it. "It has been years since I used my power on another vampire. Still…" He thought some more. "It's my understanding that William the Bloody has been wanting to meet me."

"He has."

"Then perhaps it's time we did meet face to face."

"And if it is a trick?" asked Kotaski.

"Then we remove him from the picture entirely. Either way, we come out ahead."

"He could make it difficult for us even if he is on our side."

"I'm not afraid." The predatory smile returned to Nicholae's face.

"After decades, we're almost at the endgame. And I'm not going to let anyone--- be they vigilante, Slayer or young Turk---- stop me now."


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

He had held the woman prisoner for more than twelve hours—an unusually long period for him. Normally, he held captives for less than eight; unless, of course, they were friends of Batface and his ilk. Then he gave them a lot more of his time and energy.

The Bat didn't know who this woman was and she was seemingly of no real importance to anyone--- no husband worrying, no family to harangue. So, there was really no reason that the Joker shouldn't have killed her a long time ago… except, of course, for the fact that he was bored.

"Frankly," he spoke, aiming his dialogue at the two associates in the room as he moved on to the vise, "I really don't see what ol' man Torquemada saw in all those burning coils and racks. Not only were they retro even in the Seventeenth Century, but they don't even do the same job that a good old fashioned blowtorch can do." He looked at the terrified woman. "Wouldn't you agree Miss?"

There was no reaction from the woman so Joker gave a really hard squeeze of the vise. The woman yelled but even her screams were diminished. He was pretty sure that her vocal cords had given out a few hours ago. "Well?" he asked in a far sterner voice.

"Y—Yes!!" the woman managed to gasp.

"I thought so," he said cheerfully. "Still those inquisitors were stubborn folk. Once they got their minds made up, you couldn't Torquemada anything."

On cue, both of his associates laughed—but they made little effort to make their laughter not sound forced. Under normal circumstances, the Joker would have smashed one or both of their faces in. Unfortunately, it had become far clearer in the month since he had escaped from Arkham that good help was a _lot _harder to find.

From the minute he had gotten back on the street, Joker had realized that Gotham really had become a new world--- and not a better one. For starters, when he had begun the process of rounding up some of his old gang, he had found that a lot of them had died in the past few months--- or more often, vanished without a trace. He didn't care about this. What bothered him far more was when he accounted associates and found that he wasn't the biggest game in town anymore.

This was made particularly clear when he had a conversation with Fisk, a man who had been loyal to the Joker for three years but who had only begun to work with his old boss with extreme reluctance.

"So what's happening, Fisky?" Joker had asked casually, "You and your associates don't seem that happy."

"That's because there isn't a great deal to laugh about, Mr. J."

This was heresy to the Joker's ears. "You know how I feel people without a sense of humor, Nelson."

When the Joker used first names, especially with flunkies, bad things often happened. Either Fisk had forgotten that rule or things had passed a serious juncture while he was in Arkham, because he continued to speak solemnly. "I know how you feel about that, Boss, but the fact of the matter is killing me might be doing me a huge favor. "

"Why is that?"

"Because right now on the street getting killed isn't the worst thing that can happen to you."

Up until this point the Joker had considered the vampire-like murders stories from an imaginative and disordered mind--- the kind from a person that he would have like to know better. Now he began to consider something that was pretty near unimaginable.

"What the hell has been happening in this town?" He asked in as serious a tone as he had used in a long while.

And Fisk had told him about the last three months. He told him the vampire-like killings were just the tip of the iceberg; that the major crime syndicates had been losing important members under mysterious circumstances and that many of the major low-level thugs had either disappeared or had reappeared—suddenly invulnerable against almost everything. Also, a new breed of criminal was emerging in Gotham City—one that, like the Batman, only came out at night.

"And who is the puppet master behind these events?" Joker had asked.

"No one knows for sure," Fisk answered. "They call him the Prince but no one has ever seen his face."

"No one alive, you mean," the Joker had corrected.

"Maybe," said Fisk reluctantly.

"Hmmm." For a moment the Joker heard a voice in his head whisper _Get out now _but it was gone in a moment. He asked a more pertinent question instead. "And how has the man in the cape and cowl been handling this?"

"He's taken up fighting the vampires; killing them left and right, or so they say."

"I imagine that he would." Joker had considered all this. Clearly the situation in Gotham City had changed radically over the past few months but he thought that, as had always been the case before, he could adopt, adapt and improve.

"Well," he had said slowly, "it's clear that this is a whole new world. The Bat's no doubt concentrating on more important things." Then the grin was back full force. "I guess I'll just have to show him that an old dog can learn new tricks."

And so the Joker had launched on a new campaign of evil--- one that he thought would piss off both Bat 1 and Bat 2, reestablish himself as a force in this new Gotham and be a great deal of fun in the process.

Assembling whatever henchmen he could find that were still alive and ready to work (a number that he grimly noted was a _lot _smaller than it had been in the past) he had gotten them to obtain the materials that he needed for his 'vision', as he called it.

While he had been waiting, the Joker made visits to a couple of places he hadn't gone in a while--- a few grocery stores, a couple of low-rent hardware stores, and the St. Linus' Mother of Christ church. While gathering his supplies, he had behaved very low-key, killing only four people and none of them with his usual trademarks. He didn't want to appear on anyone's radar screen until _he _was ready.

It had taken four days to perfect his design. Then the Joker began to send out his henchman out on the streets with simple instructions: Go out at night. Find a person walking alone, make sure they were _not _vampires, grab them with a minimum of fuss and bring them back doing as little damage to them as possible.

"Hurting them will be my job," he had said grimly.

The first victim had been a tall, black man. The Joker had asked for his wallet and read out his driver's license, which identified the man as one Ivan Brodsky. He had then asked the frightened man a single question. "Are you now or have you ever been in contact with the Batman?"

"N—no," Brodsky had stammered.

"Excellent!" the Joker had said in his best Mr. Burns voice. He had then ordered his henchman to bind the man's hands and take him to his current lair -- the sewers underneath St. Simeon's, the largest cathedral in Gotham.

He had led him into a medium–sized space closest to the water. In it was his torture chamber--- a combination of recently constructed devices, a design that had occurred to the Joker while in his most recent stay at Arkham.

"Where to begin?" the Joker had said musingly. "I know. Why don't we start with---- the comfy chair?"

Brodsky saw what was coming and started shouting. "No! No!" But his protests went for naught as two of the Joker's henchmen had forced him into an attractive mahogany chair on which nearly a hundred large nails were installed, pointy side up.

Over the next six hours, the Joker had proceeded to use a fairly versatile collection of painful instruments to inflict a truly ghastly amount of pain. Every time Brodsky passed out, the Joker ordered the henchmen to remove him from the chair, clean him and dress his wounds until he regained consciousness. The instant that he did, the Joker had grabbed a bucket of salt water and doused him with it.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Brodsky had screamed at least once an hour.

Each time the Joker gave the same answer. "Didn't you know? This is a random act of violence," He had said innocently. "I hear it's all the rage with these kids today." Then he resumed his attack.

Finally, seven hours later, after he had done about all the damage you can do to a man and still leave him alive, Joker lifted Brodsky's head up and said: "Well, this has been a lot of fun but I think we're finished."

"We… are?" Brodsky had managed to say.

"Uh-huh." The Joker said sweetly. "I just have one last little thing to do." He took out an eighteen-gauge needle. "Don't worry; like the midget dentist said when he took his pants down, you'll only feel a little prick."

He injected Brodsky with the needle. He had changed the formula so he didn't have to wait very long. Brodsky began to snicker… then chuckle. Finally he exploded into laughter, and while his head was up, Joker drove a small two-hole prong he'd designed into the jugular.

The position of the puncture along with the ferocity of the laughter did the rest. Soon blood was streaming out of Brodsky's neck at a truly alarming rate and yet, even as his life's blood poured out of him, the doomed man kept laughing and laughing.

Ten minutes later it was all over and Ivan Brodsky lay dead with a smile still plastered on his face, the end result of an ingestion of Joker venom. For a long moment Joker stood over the body, admiring his handiwork. "I should frame this," he had said to himself.

Then he called in two of his henchmen, both of whom had worked with the Joker long enough to know better than to gawk at the corpse before them. "Take this piece and have it moved to a place where the man-Bats will appreciate it."

"W—where would that be?" One of the drones had asked.

Joker had thought it over. "Take him back to his car," he had finally said. "Park in a 'No-Parking zone' and leave him in the driver seat." He had rubbed his hands together. "That should get their motors running."

The end result, however, had not been as sensational as he had hoped. There was no report of it on the local news, but that was hardly unusual--- the Joker had come to expect that from the Philistines who considered his work unfit for viewing. However, it had only appeared on page 3 below the fold in the Gotham Gazette. The front pages had been devoted to articles on a series of gangland killings. Disappointed but not unsatisfied, he had shrugged and said, "Oh well. As they say in the cooking shows, we'll have to kick it up a notch."

And so he had sent his men out to get another victim, female this time. Joker had gone through the same procedure on the woman, had performed with the same delicacy and succinctness and finished with the same imprint.

This time he told them to place the woman next to the Macy's on Eighth Street. The results, however, were even more unsatisfactory. The article was on page four and it was only three-quarters as long. Even worse, just before sunrise, one of his henchmen disappeared. When the Joker had asked Fisk what had happened to him, the nervous flunky had told him that he had gone out for cigarettes and never came back.

His body was found three days later completely drained of blood.

By that time Joker had far more serious concerns. His murders had not brought the goody-two shoes Batman coming down on his head, which hurt his pride, nor had it attracted the attention of the big bad vampires that invaded Gotham City. He had resolved that he would continue his working, become more and more imaginative with each successive piece.

He had then proceeded to torture and kill three men , two women and one child in an eight day period. It was his most violent and elaborate work in years--- and the Bat hadn't even looked for him. Even more upsetting, only two of his masterpieces had received any attention in the press-- the rest weren't mentioned at all.

The Joker had no way of knowing that the vampire population was more than aware of his artwork and were going to elaborate ends to make sure that it wasn't seen by the wrong people(defacing a defaced corpse was nothing new to most of them). He also had no way of knowing that the Gotham PD had struck an elaborate bargain with the media in Gotham to make sure that as little about vampiric activity made it into the news.

All he knew was that he was doing some of his best work and no one seemed to his appreciate it. Even his minions seemed less than enthralled by his masterworks but Joker knew that they were caught up over petty matters such as the death of two of them and the disappearance of two more.

Now, as he continued his administrations over his latest victim--- a nineteen year old college student named Lucy--- the Joker began to deliver a harangue to one of his remaining henchmen and Harley (who had come back into the Joker's embrace the day after his first murder) watched him work his magic.

"I'm telling you, Harley, I get no respect," he said as he picked up a fiery screwdriver. "I mean, seriously, who does a guy have to kill to get a little exposure in this burg?"

"I don't know, Mr. J," said Harley honestly. "You would think by now people would know beauty when they saw it."

"Damn straight. I mean, for murder and mayhem, I'm up there with the old masters--- Bundy and Manson and Dahmer, oh my!" he said as he pressed the screwdriver into Lucy's knuckles. "But for all the death I'm dealing out you'd think I was a Central American dictator 'cause the people here just don't give a damn."

"Nice political stuff, sir." Harley said approvingly.

Joker nodded. "I'm working on adding a little Dennis Miller into my repertoire."

"It's working for you."

"Now I can understand maybe how the police don't show any interest in my art--- even when I attract their attention they never appreciate my work." The Joker barely heard the college girl's scream as he pulled the screwdriver out; he was so caught up in his rant. "And that Bat, well he only cares about the artist, never the art. But I would have thought that those living impaired individuals that now apparently think they own this town would be able to appreciate some well done violence."

"Um, Mr. J---"

If the Joker hadn't been so enraptured by the violence and the rant he was dishing out--- or, for that matter if he had cared about Harley at all, he would have noticed that he no longer sounded sympathetic but rather afraid. Very afraid. However, like almost arch-villains, he was in love with the sound of his own voice and was therefore completely unaware of what was happening less than fifteen feet away from him.

"So I pour my heart and my liver and a good portion of my intestinal tract into these masterpieces and what thanks do I get? Where is my audience?"

"We are right here." Neither Harley or Fisk had spoken that last sentence. This voice sounded harder and older. Ancient, almost.

The Joker looked up and saw that he was no longer the only one who had dished out violence over the past few minutes. Fisk lay dead at his feet, his neck cleanly broken. Harley was lying in a corner, apparently unconscious and standing over their bodies were two rather large men with a small trace of blood on their hands.

"Well this is new and different," the Joker said coolly, trying not to express the amazement in his voice that two men had beaten the crap out of two of his closest followers without him hearing a thing in the space of just under two minutes. "Let me guess. You're the new kids in town."

"I would hardly think you would call us 'new'." One of the vampires—the Joker figured that was what they had to be—spoke up.

"Well, I must say I'm somewhat disappointed," the Joker said calmly as he reached into his coat. "I must say after all the build-up you got from my boys I was expected you'd be bigger, have better makeup and sound like Bela Lugosi."

Suddenly he pulled out the crucifix that he had been carrying for the past two weeks. It had been blessed by the priest in the Saint Simeon's just before he had shot him. The Joker had gotten his money's worth— the cross was enough to cause the vampires faces to change unto that of a demon and they both noticeably recoiled.

"Well, that's a little better." The Joker said as he walked a few more feet towards them. "Still barely better than Ed Wood, but not bad." A thought occurred to him. "Didn't I have three other guys guarding this room?"

"You did," said one of the vampires. "Our boss took care of them."

"Oh joy and rapture. At last I'm going to meet someone in charge." The Joker looked around. "And where, pray tell, is he?"

"I am right here."

The Joker looked surprised—it was the older voice that had first spoken, but it clearly didn't belong to either of the vampires currently in the room.

Suddenly he saw him. The figure was much taller than the other two—at least six foot five. His face was lined with so many scars he almost made Croc look handsome. His hands were lined and ridged with long fingernails caked with dirt and blood. He wore a dark overcoat that looked like it might have been fashionable a century ago.

This was the real McCoy. The Joker had finally struck gold. So why did it feel like all the spit in his mouth had dried up?

"So you are the one that they call Joker," There was a definite European accent in the vampire's voice but it didn't sound like Bela. There was also a trace of disdain in its voice that Joker didn't really care for—but there was no point arguing with someone who had just slaughtered his men.

"Well, my friends would call me Jack, but I don't have any friends," he said, putting the proper amount of whimsy and mockery in his voice.

"What's your name?"

The large vampire eyeballed the man up and down. "My name is Kotaski, little man," the vampire said after a few seconds. "And we are not going to be friends so don't be cute."

At the back of the Joker's mind a small voice was screaming. It may have been the last shred of sanity that he still had and right now it was telling him to get the hell out of here while he still could, while survival was still an option. But the Joker had spent years ignoring that part of himself and he wasn't going to start listening to it now, especially now that he was on the cusp of his greatest achievement.

So he lowered his voice and asked almost casually, "By the by, how did you manage to get inside my humble abode? I distinctly remember that a vampire needs an invitation to get into a person's home."

Kotaski eyed the Joker like he was examining some small insect before responding. "That is only necessary when the building in question is an actual house, not some chamber in a sewer under a church," The old vampire spat on the ground with signs of disgust. "Though I suppose that an establishment like this is fitting to someone such as yourself."

"Well, I do admit the quarters leave a lot to be desired." Joker admitted. "Truth be told I haven't really been paying much mind to my surroundings; I've been so immersed in my art."

"Art?" Kotaski spat. He began laughing and not the good kind of laughter that the Joker enjoyed hearing, either. No, these guffaws were ones of pity and disdain. "You call this---" Kotaski gestured to the woman in the chair who was bleeding from a hundred places and who had been whimpering in pain all through the conversation, "----art? You urinate on the Spanish Steps and you call it ART!!!"

And in a motion so swift that the Joker barely saw it, Kotaski grabbed one of the nails off the tray and rammed it through the woman's neck. She gagged for a few seconds before dying.

Now the Joker was getting pissed. "I was in the middle of something here and you have no right---"

"Something? This is nothing! It's a stain, a debasement, an abomination. Like all your previous work." Kotaski made a noise that was pretty close to a snarl. "Like you!"

The Joker was getting ready to boil over. "You're making me angry. Trust me; you don't want me to get angry. "

"I care no more for your state of mind then the rest of you." Kotaski was playing him completely straight, which infuriated the Joker even more. "The people of this city, the crime-fighter, the mobsters, they all shivered when your name was mentioned." Now Kotaski was circling around the corpse. "They called you cousin to the Devil and the greatest evil around. Pah!!"

In one swift motion, Kotaski shoved the chair over to the wall--- no easy trick because Joker had nailed it to the floor. "Your name is absolutely perfect, because you are a buffoon, a failed clown, a complete and utter fool!!"

By now the Joker was rapidly realizing the severity of his situation. Unfortunately, he was still grossly underestimating the danger he was in. Part of it was his general insanity, but a lot more of it was his overbearing ego. The voice that said '_I'M _the biggest badass in Gotham City and don't you forget it!' and he wasn't going to let this Bram Stoker reject beat him. Not on his turf.

So he extended his grin back to full force and began to slowly walk backward, beginning to reach for the tools he had gone to an enormous amount of trouble to obtain. "Well, I may be a buffoon," the Joker said slowly, "and in several ways I may be a failure is a clown." He assumed a Groucho voice. "Certainly I'm not making you laugh." He then lowered his voice until it was more menacing. "But I am far, far from the fool you think I am. In fact, if there's one thing that I'm good at, it's planning ahead."

And in one swift motion he brought out one of the special 'stakes' that he had designed--- a Louisville Slugger with one end filed to a point. "Batter up!" he shouted and he slammed the bat into Kotaski's chest.

The Joker wasn't entirely sure what he had expected to happen, but seeing Kotaski look down at the 'stake', give a small sigh, and pull it out of his chest was pretty near the bottom of the list. "You think to thwart me with that puny piece of wood?" the scarred vampire asked disdainfully as he tossed it to the ground.

_Oh shit_, thought the Joker. There was no question as to what he was feeling in his guts right now. Fear. Screaming, gibbering fear. To make matters worse he had now nearly backed up until he was at the wall which meant he was nearly out of room.

Still he did have a couple of tricks left. "Well," he said in as brave a voice as he could manage, "you have caught me with my pants down." Suddenly he put his hand on the flower in his lapel. "Good thing that I always wear clean boxers."

He squeezed the flower and a stream of holy water taken from the church above him hit Kotaski dead in the face. This time there was damage done--- Kotaski fell back with his face giving off hot steam.

_You can't beat them. Run. The speedboat that you brought isn't that far away. These vamps aren't nearly as tough as Kotaski; a good poke in the ribs will take them out. Worry about PR later; now just save your ass._

He was about to start running, about to put one foot in front of the other when suddenly he heard a voice in his head. And this time it definitely did not belong to him.

**Joker**, it said softly but forcefully. **Where do you think that you're going?**

It was a perfectly valid question because he found himself unable to move. He mentally willed himself to do so but he was completely paralyzed. "W—who are you?" Joker said, hating the stammer in his voice but unable to do anything to stop it.

**I think that you know**. There was power in this voice. An evil so dark and deep that he could almost believe what Kotaski had said about him. **You wanted to meet the Prince. Well, now you have.**

The Joker looked around—or tried to, his head was as paralyzed as the rest of his body. "Where are you?"

A derisive laugh came. **Nowhere near here, if that is your question. I am miles away.**

"Then how are you doing this?"

**One of the men who you were thinking of running from was sired by**

**me. The bond between us is so deep I can see through his eyes, hear through his ears.** The voice snickered. **My powers are diminished, I admit, but they are still strong enough to bind you to this spot.**

_He doesn't even need to do that anymore, _the Joker thought sourly. By now both of the vampires which had come with Kotaski were on either side of him.

And speaking of Kotaski, the larger, more scarred vampire was standing again, his face looking worse than before, partly because of the steam coming off it, mostly because his scowl had gone from menacing to downright psychotic.

"You pale-faced freak!! You think to thwart me--- a member of the Carpathian guard--- with that pitiful flower and the pathetic cross!!?" He grabbed the cross from the Joker's suddenly nerveless hand and quickly broke it across his knee. When he heard it snap, the Joker knew that he'd being hearing that noise for the rest of his life--- which, admittedly, might not be that much longer.

"I should kill you now and save the world a lot of trouble." Kotaski said shortly. A cruel smile—which did nothing to improve his looks appeared on his face. "But his Excellency has a far more fitting plan."

"W—what are you going to do?" the Joker managed to ask.

"Do you know what Gotterdammerung is?" Kotaski didn't wait for an answer. "It is German for 'twilight of the gods'." He walked a few paces away from the Joker. "The people in Gotham who know what we are think that we have come to destroy the city."

"Then- then what are you going to do?" The Joker managed to get out before one of the vampires slapped him in the face.

"They misunderstand the plan. It is not Gotham we plan to destroy--- only the people who made it what is today. Commissar Gordon, Thorne, Falcone, Two-Face, Batman," Kotaski gestured towards the Joker, "yourself--- will be the ones to go."

The Carpathian walked calmly back towards him. "'You, Joker, will be the first to fall." His predatory grin resurfaced. "And we shall make your demise as public as possible."


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

The changing of one year to the next is usually a very exuberant and joyous occasion in any city. The atmosphere is full of ebullience and good will, champagne and wine flow freely, and people try to put their worries, fears and difficulties behind them as the old year dies and the new one is born.

But on the last night of 2003, as the city moved towards the New Year, the mood in Gotham City was far from celebratory. Normally, there were many public ceremonies, including a ball falling from a tower at midnight as crowds of hundreds celebrated and thousands more watched on TV.

This year, however, because of the strings of killing and mysterious disappearances that had taken place over the past four months, a curfew had been put in place and citizens had been advised to limit celebrations. Not that any of this was necessary. Fewer and fewer citizens frequented the streets after dark these days. The illusions that many Gothamites had clung to--- that their city was essentially normal and safe—had been fading more and more as the days grew shorter.

Batman had little contact with the people of that he protected. Nevertheless, he knew that his city was becoming less and less his. In a manner of speaking, things had been getting more under control in the two months that Faith and Spike had confronted him with the true evil that stalked Gotham. Ever since the Slayer had arrived and he and his people had begun to effort of destroying the vampire population in the city, Commissioner Gordon had reported that there had been a noticeable decrease in the number of vampire-type murders. Indeed, Jim said that there hadn't been a report of any such killing in nearly three weeks --- which would have encouraged Batman more if he hadn't known that a lot of those killings were doubtless going unreported.

Indeed, it was the lack of activity on several fronts which had Batman far more concerned. The number of gangland assassinations and incidents had trickled off to nearly zero in the past two weeks. Furthermore, Oracle reported that there had been minimal chatter among gangs about activities such as this. Batman, however, was far from naïve enough that the problems were resolved but without public scenes, there was little that he could do.

As for the escape at Arkham more than a month ago, all but one of the escapees had been recaptured and imprisoned in institutions outside Gotham. One of those involved, Maxie Zeus had hired a mouthpiece and managed to negotiate a temporary release. This was annoying, but not extremely problematic.

The real predicament was that the Joker seemed to have completely disappeared. Batman suspected that the Joker had been hiding underground but searching his normal hideouts revealed nothing. Even more alarming was the fact that six known associates of the Joker had been found dead in the past ten days. The clincher had occurred yesterday when Harley Quinn had been found unconscious outside Gotham Memorial. Batman and Gordon had both tried to see her but the doctors said that she was comatose and had sustained several major internal injuries. They put her chances at recovering as extremely low.

Batman knew that while the Joker valued no one's life but his own, Quinn's devotion to the man who had driven her mad was total and that she would have given her life to protect him. The fact that someone had apparently made this a reality convinced Batman that something terrible had happened to the Joker. This bothered him more than everything else. The Joker was without question the most vicious and violent criminal that Batman had ever had to face. If someone had managed to destroy him, what would that say about his chances of stopping the vampires who seemed to be pulling the strings?

This was particularly frustrating because they had made so little progress in getting anymore information about Nick Prince, or whoever this king vampire really was. So far all of his work, aided by Oracle, had netted nothing. There was no trace of evidence as to where the king vamp was hiding. The few vampires who Batman had managed to capture alive either didn't know or refused to give any hint of where he was. It seemed that their only hope was through the work of Spike.

Batman didn't trust the vampire much further than he could throw him, and he was even less thrilled by what Spike wanted to do to Nightwing in order to ensure that he would move higher up the chain of command. Dick, perhaps sensing the trouble ahead, had agreed to go along with it and they had moved forward. However, that had been three days ago, and he hadn't heard one word from either of them. Which either meant Spike had succeeded at his game but couldn't contact them or that he and Dick were dead. Bruce was leaning more towards the former than the latter, but he didn't know whether instinct or foolish optimism was guiding him.

He had known that patrolling the city tonight was practically a fait accompli. Both Tim and Faith had been doing sweeps of the city every night and had reported zero activity, dead or alive, over the past three days. Nevertheless, as 2003 drew to a close, Batman had become more and more certain that something big was going to happen very soon. What this evil would like he had no idea but he knew that some rough beast was on its way and it was about to arrive. He had been certain that it would come from Crime Alley but his latest sweep netted nothing.

Nothing at all.

Paradoxically this convinced him even more that something was going to happen. Crime Alley hadn't just been quiet; it had been all but deserted. In all his years watching Gotham Batman knew that neither rain nor snow nor dark of night prevented the criminals of Gotham City from preying on the helpless. Not only were there no predators; there had been (with the exception of a few bag ladies) no prey. One almost expected a lone tumbleweed to come blowing down the street through the freezing night air. The emptiness did nothing to divert his feeling of impending doom.

Impending doom? Was that what it was? Batman didn't recognize the feeling. He had felt dismay before, even despair, but doom? That would imply that he was afraid. And he had always worked to deny fear of any kind in him. Now, even in the deepest darkness, he would not concede---

"Ahhh!" The shout snapped him back to full attention. He looked around but instinctively he knew where the voice had come from--- a dirty man in very dirty clothes in the street behind him was the only person he had seen today.

Less than five seconds later he was there – and stopped, slightly puzzled. The dirty man was in the alley, alone. No sign of any purse snatcher or vandal anywhere. Looking closely Batman saw that the man's skin was yellowish, and the veins in his head and neck were clearly becoming varicose. Even from a distance it was clear that this man did not have much longer to live and probably wouldn't notice when he finally stopped.

This was a sad case of humanity but it was somewhat beyond his level of responsibility. In any case, he certainly had more important things to deal with tonight.

He turned away--- and that's when the night started becoming a nightmare.

"Wain!" the man shouted. "Wain!"

Batman turned slowly back to the old wino. Had he--- No, it was probably just the cry of a madman.

"WAINNN!" The wino shouted and pointed at him to leave no doubt.

Despite himself Batman looked around. No one else was in the area. Nobody else who the drunk could be talking about. No one else who could hear the drunks rant.

Quickly, he closed the distance between them. "Are you all right?" Batman said, not wanting to ask the question but having no better idea how to approach this.

For a few moments there was only silence. Upon a closer look Batman saw that the wino was pretty old--- in his early sixties, though of course a steady diet of booze could add a decade to your physical age.

Besides his appearance there was nothing obviously strange about him.

He was about to dismiss the old man's gibberish as, well, gibberish when suddenly the man turned his head towards him.

Suddenly his expression changed from apparent vacancy to some kind of recognition. "You…" the wino gasped out. "You who the night whispers to…"

"Yes." Batman ventured cautiously.

"The night speaks to him, too… Only, to him, it screams."

Batman's normal reaction would be to dismiss the old man's ravings as those of the deluded. There was something besides vague recognition in the old man's eyes, though… Something that Batman didn't like at all.

"The clock strikes one and the cosmic egg falls. Itsy bitsy spider climbs up from the sewers."

Batman was used to receiving cryptic messages from unlikely sources. But he wasn't sure where to begin to decode this. Knowing that it would probably be a futile effort Batman tried to reason with him. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm not sure what you're trying to say---"

Suddenly the wino's hand was on his wrist. For an old man, he had a strong grip. "You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?"

Batman had become a master being able to mask his reaction to pretty much anything anyone could say to him, but when he heard these words, sounding eerily like they had come straight from the Joker's mouth, he almost flinched. "What the hell is going on here?" he said angrily.

"Not quite there yet. Will be soon enough." The wino no longer sounded like the Joker. Now he seemed afraid. "Lucifer is falling yet again and when he lands this time, the Heavens will bleed."

"Speak English!" Batman now sounded genuinely angry, perhaps mainly to cover the fact that he was becoming more and more confused.

"The man with the painted face is being hung in another gallery. When he is properly viewed, the darkness will rise and it may never go away." He was now whispering harshly. "When the evil emerges, Bruce, you must accept help, no matter who it comes from. Otherwise we are all doomed."

Batman absorbed all this but part of him had frozen after he had heard one particularly word. "How do you know my name?"

"Unmask! Unmask! Unmask!" Whatever strength the wino had acquired was rapidly disappearing; his hand was now hanging limp on Bruce's arm. "And the Red Death held sway over all."

Suddenly his hand dropped away from Batman's wrist. The Caped Crusader almost didn't feel it. "What are you talking about? How do you know who I am?"

There was no response from the old wino, this time. And why should there have been? Batman was close enough to the old man to realize that the smell coming off him was one of decay. Whoever this was… he had been dead for some time… at least a few hours.

Batman slowly backed away from the --- corpse--- his mind reeling. He had dealt with supernatural being before, had been warned off by more than one unearthly force, but this unsettled him mainly because it was so cryptic. For that matter, he wasn't sure which side had opted to use the dead in order to send him a message. What the hell had just---

Suddenly the radio he was wearing clicked on. "Batman, Batman… are you there?"

It was Oracle. Instantly, he was back in the real world. "What is it, Barbara?" he said levelly

"I just got a message from my father. He said that needs you to come to Saint Simeon's right now."

Saint Simeon's held a midnight mass on New Year's Eve. If someone was at the church… "What happened?"

And speaking in a concerned voice that was almost nothing like her normal tone Barbara said, "Just… get there… now..." Her tone held no emotion to it.

"I'm on my way." Batman signed off. For a moment he lingered over his premonition, making sure that he had every word the wino had said engraved in his memory. He didn't know if what had just happened had something to do with whatever was happening at the church, but he had a gut feeling that it did.

He walked back to the Batmobile. As he did, he looked at the sky and saw what might be construed as another premonition. The moon was full tonight, but the clouds that had appeared in front of it seemed to be positioned to resemble a skull.

A death's head, in a manner of speaking.

Bruce knew that darkness had always been around Gotham City. This was the first time in a while that he had remembered that the darkness was much deeper and wider spread then he had admitted to himself. Would it overwhelm the city?

He didn't have an answer.

Gothamites did not regard religion with any greater intensity than other cities with a high crime rate. The amount of murder and destruction that had been taking place in the city even before the invasion of the undead had made for a rather high population of agnostics. But even if you weren't particularly religious – like Harvey Bullock --- sometimes the symbols meant a lot more than that. It was one of the reasons that he, like most of the people of Gotham, considered Saint Simeon's Cathedral something right and proper.

Saint Simeon's was the largest church in Gotham, standing well over two hundred feet high. Built nearly three hundred years ago it was also one of the oldest structures in the city. What made the cathedral unique even among other religious structures was that it was carved out of white sheet that for some reason had only yellowed slightly with the passage of time. It wasn't just a symbol of religion; it was a symbol of purity in a city that didn't have a great number of sacred and profane things.

That was probably why what had happened on the roof of the cathedral hurt Bullock—and no doubt thousands of other citizens of Gotham--- in such a painful and agonizing way. It was probably why so many of the cops that Commissioner Gordon had ordered to cordon off the crime scene were quieter and more somber than usual.

_Crime scene. _That was a weird way to think about what was now on the roof of Saint Simeon's. The last time something like this had been considered a crime, the calendar read B.C. rather than A.D. Even then, though, it had been considered a sin more than a crime.

For the tenth time in an hour, Bullock wished that Gordon had let them take the body down rather than leave the scene as they had found it for Batman to see. He was sure that they weren't going to find any evidence of who had done this, and he was also pretty certain that every newspaper and TV station in Gotham had already gotten pictures of the scene. Eventually, some pinhead camera man from the AP or one of the major networks was going to show up and then the shit would really start to roll downhill.

_The shit has been rolling downhill for quite some time, Harvey m'boy. This is just going to tell the world what everyone else in Gotham already knows…_

True. This was a _national_ _story_. Right up there with Kennedy being shot for the number of ramifications that it might have.

"I was wondering when you'd get here."

Bullock turned around even though he knew that there was no way that Gordon was talking about him. For what had to have been the umpteenth time in his career he wondered how the Batman managed to arrive with no one noticing him. There were at least twenty cops around Saint Simeon's, at least two hundred people crowding the barriers and police tape, and almost all of the press in Gotham was present. Yet somehow the original Man in Black had managed to arrive on scene with nary a soul finding him.

"This is a pretty big party, Jim. I needed to take extra precautions."

"You have a problem with crowds? Color me surprised."

Batman was no longer listening to Gordon. Of course there happened to be an excellent reason that the Caped Crusader's attention was diverted. It was just on top of the horizon.

On the spire of Saint Simeon, a giant mahogany cross had been planted —Bullock figured it was at least ten feet high and six feet long. And, nailed upside down to that cross, was the Clown Prince of Gotham.

"H--- How long has he been up there?" The stammer in Batman's voice was barely notable, but it was there. For once it seemed Batman's remarkable – and in Bullock's mind, often infuriating--- reserve was genuinely frayed. In many ways this was more disturbing then the Joker being nailed to the church as if he were the sail on a ship.

"He wasn't here when the Monsignor opened the doors at 11:30. " Gordon sounded as professional as he could manage, given the circumstances. "When they finished half an hour ago, he opened the door. A member of the congregation felt a drop of blood fall on his shoulder, he looked up, and, well…" Gordon trailed off.

"So you're telling me that between 11:45, when St Simeon's had closed its doors and 12:45, when the doors had been flung open, someone—or a team of someone's--- managed to lift that huge cross to the roof of the cathedral, nailed it there and then disappeared into the night, all the while unheard by the parishioners outside?"

Gordon shook his head. "As far as we've ascertained."

"And this doesn't strike you as a little odd?"

The Commissioner looked more than a little pissed when he heard that. "No, Batman, I considered it par for the course all the lunacy and madness that the city has been hip deep in for the past three months."

"I didn't mean to sound facetious, Jim. I meant that during the hour this was going on, nobody on the street even noticed that they were hanging the Joker up as if he were some kind of plastic Santa Claus? How do you think they managed that particular trick?"

Suddenly Detective Bullock had had enough. "That's a real good question, Bats," he said as he began to walk over from the police tape where he'd been watching the crowd. "Why don't you hit us with a theory? Throw a bone to those of us who haven't been getting scraps for the past three months?"

"Harvey…" The Commissioner's voice was harsh.

"I'm sorry, Commish, but it's the truth. Every time a body shows up a few pints low with holes in the neck, we're told not to worry about catching the perp, that it's being handled." He gestured toward the Batman. "How the hell has he been handling it?"

"It's complicated, Harvey." He recognized Gordon's 'you're crossing the line-tone', but suddenly, he didn't care. He was going to be eligible for a pension in six months, and being a cop was meaning less and less to him these days.

"Complicated? Like the way these gangland hits are complicated? The way these new criminals are complicated? The ones who must be wearing Kevlar underwear 'cause bullets just seem to irritate them?"

"He's right, Jim."

Harvey didn't recognize the tone in Batman's voice because he'd almost never heard it before: humility. That brought him back to earth in the way his boss's tone hadn't. First he's unnerved about someone doing a Willem Defoe on the Joker, now he's doubting his decisions? Things in Gotham _were _pretty bad if the Bat was starting to wear around the edges.

"I've been so used to handling things in this city that I haven't been able to recognize I needed help." Batman looked at Bullock. "And it never occurred to me to ask for help from the people who are qualified to give it."

Batman had just admitted he wasn't infallible. Bullock would have said that Hell must have frozen over, except he was no longer that wasn't exactly what was happening in Gotham.

"Detective Bullock, what do you think is going on here?"

Talk about days for the calendar; Batman had just asked his advice. _Stow it, Harvey .Now is not the time to be glib and sarcastic; especially when you're about to say what you're gonna say._

Bullock swallowed, and then said the thing he had only told himself before he went to bed. "I think there are vampires loose in Gotham. I think that they're waging some kind of war with us and the hoods in this town; and I think we're losing it. And I think that this…" he said, gesturing towards the cross, "…is their sign to all of us that they're now calling the shots."

Now that he had just mentioned the elephant in the room, Bullock was surprised to find that his knees were on the verge of buckling. "Please tell me that I'm crazy."

Batman and the Commissioner looked at each other. "You're absolutely right," Batman finally said.

Bullock now felt even more swimmy. "Funny," he said. "It's not as satisfying having all the answers as you'd think."

"Commissioner!" The yell came from the roof. Now that Batman was here, Gordon finally figured it make sense to have a couple of uniforms take the Joker's body down.

"What is it?" said Gordon almost irritated by the distraction.

"He's got a pulse!"

"That's not possible!" Gordon said in a tone that clearly indicated no, pigs don't fly

"It's barely there, but I'm pretty sure he's alive. Should we get the paramedics up here?"

For a split second Bullock wondered why he was asking such a stupid question; if someone was dying but still clinging to life, it was SOP for anyone no matter who they were. Then Bullock remembered some of the things that the Joker had done to the Commissioner over the years, and he realized that even a lifetime cop like Gordon may have passed his threshold for dealing with this particular villain.

Batman looked at Gordon and saw the same struggle in the man's eyes between duty and justice. Perhaps realizing what had to be going on in the Commissioner's head, he began heading towards the roof.

"Don't," Gordon finally managed to say.

"Jim, you know he might---"

"I don't give a rat's ass what he might, does or will know," Gordon said between his teeth. "Whoever's behind this clearly wanted the bastard dead, and I see no reason at all not to let nature finish the job."

Batman appeared stunned to hear these words. "Jim, you don't mean that."

"Yes, I do." Gordon put his hand on the Batman's shoulder. "You saw those injuries. Even if we get him to a hospital, what happens next? We have the doctors at Mercy spend their time and money on nursing this bastard back to health, so that pale-faced son of a bitch can just break free and kill another dozen people? How many more people have to die for the sake of you and I taking the moral high ground?"

On a gut level, Bullock agreed with every word the Commissioner said. He wouldn't lose sleep if the Joker took a dirt-nap. But to hear his boss, the man who represented the professional face of law and order in Gotham City, voice these thoughts publicly, appalled him. No cop could speak like this and keep his job.

"Jim…" Batman's voice now had a gentle tone that Bullock didn't think the man in black was capable of. "…you can't think like this. You took an oath. "

"_The bastard killed Sarah!" _Gordon was practically screaming now. "He put my daughter in a wheelchair for the rest of her life! The city is falling down around me, hell, the dead walk the streets as we speak, and now you want me to save that smiling freak!? For what?! Goddamnit, for_ what!?"_

Batman wished he had a good answer. One that Jim could accept, if not embrace, and that would make himself feel easier about what he was to do next. A part of him desperately wanted to just let it end. To stop the whole goddamn dance, let the Joker meet whatever maker there was and focus on the greater evils --- ones which he now knew were ready to riot. But part of him --- and oh, how much he hated that part of him tonight--- told him that he could not go back on his oath. That he could not, especially in this new world, start down the path that led to darkness. If he did, he truly would be no better the creatures he fought.

So he did what he had to. He turned to Gordon, said, "I'm sorry, Jim, but this is what I have to do." and punched Gordon in the face. As Gordon fell, Batman ran to the nave, pulled out one of his grappling hook guns, fired and pulled himself up to the steeple.

Harvey Bullock wasn't just stunned by what had just happened; he was flabbergasted. For the first time, he began to feel real fear at what was going on in Gotham. If things were bad enough so that the Commissioner was a step away from losing it, the Bat was doubting himself and hitting the Commish so he could move around a crime scene, then the world that he knew was gone.

Bullock got to his boss and found to his horror that he couldn't think of the right thing to say. "Are you all right?" had an obvious answer, and he wasn't sure what would happen if he asked, "What do you want me to do?" or "What do you need?" There were no safe answers; there was no right question.

"I'm all right, Harvey," Gordon said as he got to his feet. "He didn't hit me as hard as he could." As he rose, Bullock was appalled to see a kind of blankness in his expression that he had only seen before in battered wives and junkies.

It was the look that said part of them had given up.

Batman didn't want to think of what he had just done to his oldest ally in the city. He didn't want to think of what the ramifications when word got out that Batman had struck the Commissioner. He would have to deal with them eventually, but now it was clear that the darkness around Gotham was swallowing the city whole and he had to do something to stop it—even if that something was resuscitating his greatest foe.

But fate was not without a sense of irony. The Joker was still alive, in the sense that he was breathing and had a pulse. But the wounds on the Jokers body were extensive. He wouldn't be able to tell without an X-ray, but it seemed like many of his internal organs had been punctured. He had also done a neural check and he was pretty sure that the Joker had 'doll's eyes', which meant that the Joker, for all intents and purposes, was a vegetable.

The Joker had clearly been the subject of extensive torture and mutilations and the primitive part of him – the part that grieved the dozens of lives the Joker had snuffed out--- thought '_Good. Dead and done...' _But the more rational part was very worried. The Joker was the most formidable adversary that he had ever faced, yet these vampires had reduced him to little more than a sack of bloody meat. If they were capable of that kind of violence---

He looked up at the Joker's face. Something wasn't right with it, and in a moment saw it. There was something white sticking out of the Joker's mouth. Gingerly opening it, he found that it was a crumpled piece of paper, and that it went almost all the way to the back of the throat.

Flattening it out, he saw that there was writing on both sides of it.

On one side, the message was in big print.

_For The Batman, from Nicholae. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!_

He turned the paper over and saw another handwritten message.

_Let the removal of this stain from Gotham City serve as a message to all those on the side of the Law that the city is now mine. Those who fight shall die. Those who resist shall serve. Those who are standing shall fall. Leave the city or I will make what I have done to him happen to you… but not nearly as gently._

Almost as if it was on cue, his headpiece crackled.

"Priority alert! Batman, come in!"

"Copy!" Batman said, putting the note in his pocket. Events would occur so rapidly in the next few days that Batman would not realize its significance until three days later… when it was almost too late.

"We've got a major disturbance on the eastern section of Gotham." Oracle sounded worried.

"What kind of disturbance?"

"Okay, disturbance is probably the wrong word."

And even though he thought that he knew the answer to his question, Batman asked it regardless. "What is it then?"

"It's starting to look like a war."


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Though neither would have admitted it, Nicholae and Batman shared a similar trait: they were both brilliant psychologists interested in human nature and the criminal mind. And Nicholae understood one thing extremely well: people who have criminal minds don't trust other people with criminal minds. They suspect and imagine every single dubious, dirty and manipulative betrayal that a comrade could possibly make against them because those are exactly the kind of moves that _they_ would be making if they were in their shoes. In other words, there is room for raging paranoia behind any master criminal, and that paranoia is amplified tenfold if you hold a position of power.

Having witnessed more than his share of betrayed alliances and duplicitous machination, Nicholae knew that even if he were to do absolutely nothing to the major syndicates in Gotham, there would be a great deal of nervousness and unrest simply in the natural order of things. By planting his people in low level positions where they could begin planting suggestions and 'removing' certain other members of these gangs from their posts, Nicholae soon had all of the major players chomping at the bit to start attacking each other. All that he needed to start the dominos falling was one last little touch, and the Scarecrow had been more than willing to provide that.

The Prince had to admit that not even he had expected Crane's work to pay off in such a splendid fashion, but the good doctor had proven himself invaluable in ways Nicholae had only dreamed of. By modifying some of his terror drugs, the Scarecrow had managed to keep fools such as Maxie Zeus and The Ventriloquist under the spell of their own delusions long enough so that they could be 'handled'. It was this that had kept the number of headaches Nicholae had expected from the would be arch-fiends, but also prevented him from any major outpourings of violence that would have raised the law's hackles --- at least until Kotaski had enabled him to destroy the Joker.

Now that Batman had found his present, Nicholae had figured it was time to begin the endgame. To that end, he had given each of his inside men a variation of Scarecrow's fear toxin to put strategic plays in order against the Syndicate. Given all the reports he had received the Prince didn't think actually that any 'chemical imbalances' would be necessary to set things in motion but at this point he was going to linger on the side of caution.

Tempers had been short in all of the various families for weeks, Nicholae's vamps being crafty enough to plant seeds of distrust not only against other gangs but also within them. Given the condition they were in, all Nicholae would have had to do was wait a few more weeks and the syndicates would simply implode. But he had already spent several months waiting for action and he wanted to proceed now – when the city, the criminals and Batman were at their weakest.

So at 1:55 A.M. on the first day of 2004, several members of the Maroni family, led by a mid-level enforcer who had been known as 'Nails' Gibone – he hadn't needed to breathe for nearly three months--- drove to a warehouse on Gibson and Hilton in the mid-level section of the city. The warehouse had long been known as a stronghold for the Thorne people and 'Nails' had convinced the higher-ups that certain members of Rupert Thorne's syndicate were plotting a major assault on the wharfs where a major shipment of heroin had recently arrived.

Lucia Brancato, a Maroni capo who had never liked Nails when he was alive, was not particularly happy that he was being called into lead the attack. "What makes you so certain that 'Nails' info is accurate?" he had asked Mario Lombardi, the man who had entrusted Brancato with the assignment.

"Nails' says that he got it straight from the horse's mouth," Lombardi had said in an irritated tone (he hadn't been sleeping very well lately). "It's a hundred percent real."

In actuality, members of the Thorne Syndicate _were _planning an assault for the next day. What Lombardi didn't know was that 'Nails's source was in fact a drug runner in the Thorne syndicate—one who, like 'Nails' had recently become 'living impaired'. He also didn't know that the same drug runner had _suggested_ the raid a week earlier as part of the larger plan--- and had convinced the Thornes that danger was brewing.

So by the time the coalition from the Maroni's arrived at the door both sides were agitated and ready to kill each other. They didn't know that a third group-- consisting mostly of vampires--- were not far away waiting for the violence to start. They also didn't know that three of the Maroni shooters and four of Thorne's men were undead and readying themselves for action of a completely different kind. And even if they had, there was a good chance that many of them would not have cared. Gangsters in many ways are as bloodthirsty as the undead, and right now their blood was up.

Because the bullets would begin flying as soon as all of the gang members were out of the car, no one would ever know who fired the first shot. Much like the shot fired at Lexington in April of 1775, the owner of the bullet is lost to history. And in the long run, it is irrelevant who shot first. The point is someone did. The rest was inevitable.

In less than one minute, all seventeen members of the Thorne syndicate and all fourteen Maroni gangsters were firing. The level of the bullets hitting brick walls, car doors, windows and the occasional person was so loud it could be heard as far away as a quarter of a mile. Twenty-three 911 calls from the surrounding area would be recorded in the next ten minutes. Police did not respond for another ten--- at which time the situation had gotten a lot worse.

Carl Novello, a hired gun for the Maronis was the first man to realize that there was something wrong with the situation. He had emptied his Glock9 twice and he had made damn sure that he been aiming at actual people rather than the building in general. So how was it that it felt like he was still in the middle of the Battle of the Bulge?

Suddenly, he saw a real target – a greasy Romanian named Leon who was one of the more prominent money men in the Thorne syndicate running right at him. What on earth someone like him was doing in the middle of a shootout like this was a question that troubled Carl but (unfortunately for him) not for long enough.

"Adios, asshole!" Carl yelled as he began to fire on the large and inviting target. He got off six shots in roughly nine seconds --- none of which stopped or even slowed Leon. A smarter criminal would have been more concerned about what he was seeing but Carl—like many of his fellow soldiers--- possessed little intelligence and even less imagination. He merely assumed that Leon was wearing Kevlar (although he was sure that he had clipped the Romanian in the kneecap) and decided he would be better advised to raise his Glock to the level of Leon's head.

He fired three shots and one of the nicked the oily Romanian in the forehead. This did get results --- Leon fell to the ground and dropped his head into his hands.

_Bullseye, motherfucker,_ Carl thought—and kept thinking even as Leon raised his head. There was now a rather large scar on the side of the Romanians forehead where a bullet had passed, but that was not what drew Carl's attention. No, the raised forehead and fangs did—along with the fact that Leon, now looking three times as ugly as before, was now running straight ahead.

At this point Carl's head short circuited. In his haste to find safety, he forgot that he was leaning against a rather fast sports car. Rather than dive inside it and depart, Carl got to his feet and began to run in the opposite direction --- thus running right into his death.

"Going somewhere?" said a vamp who until a couple of weeks ago had been a hoodlum named Tommy Duff. "The party is just getting started." And with that he sunk his fangs into Carl's neck.

Tommy took a good, long drink from Carl before discarding him. "That was my kill," said Leon as he walked the rest of the way to the car.

"You wouldn't have liked him much," said Tommy nastily. "Damn Italian all taste the same --- too much crappy Chianti and garlic toast."

Leon chose not to be amused by this particular witticism. "The sonofawhore killed my one of my best friends a year ago," he said crankily.

'Oh, you're not one of those vamps who gets off on all of these blood oaths and revenge jags," said Tommy cheerily. "You know as well as I do that these sorts of grudges are _not_ the kind of things that our masters want to get hung up on."

At the mention of this Leon shut up. There was enough Transylvanian in his gene pool for him to be afraid of these vampires. Besides, there were more than enough Maroni's shooters for him to take out his aggression on. "Then let's get a move on." he said.

"Right you are, boy-o," the former Tommy Duff said as he turned his attention to the other gangsters.

With that the group of vampires who had up until now only been observing the fight charged both groups of the combatants. The two groups of gangsters were so caught up in laying down their own level of destruction that they didn't realize that they was another force behind them until it was far too late to run. Not that they could have run far if they had wanted to, because the vampires who were within both gangs took this opportunity to become another group of enemies.

The shooting went on for another two minutes, which was how long that it took for the gang members who hadn't been shot to expend all of the ammo they had in their guns. The only people who were killed were the poor wretches who had realized the danger they were in and made an attempt to escape. In many ways, they were the luckiest ones of the fight.

A mere fifteen minutes after the battle began, sixteen of the most dangerous felons in the city of Gotham—men who had committed fifty-nine felonies between them--- were lying on the cold, hard ground, dead either of gun shot wounds or severe blood loss through the neck. Seven of the remaining felons had been turned and were therefore left on the sidewalk to eventually raise more havoc and destruction.

The remaining vampires spent a few minutes picking up all of the guns and money that they could get their hands on before Luther Sachs, once a lieutenant in the Thorne syndicate, gestured towards the now approaching sirens and said: "Okay, everyone! We've got a lot to get done before the night is out and we have to get started right now."

The vamps reacted quickly and efficiently. By the time the first police car had arrived on the scene, the streets were empty of all but corpses. Or so it seemed to the police --- until one of the sports cars that had been left behind exploded.

Before the police could even report the fire, they were under attack from a second line of shooters who had been left behind to pin the police down. Keeping the fuzz of Gotham busy was one of the orders of the night--- and the vamps were as good at this as the mobsters they were hoping to supplant.

Barbara Gordon could not believe her eyes and ears. Despite everything that had been happening in the city over the past few months she now realized that she had believed that Gotham would always remain fundamentally sound and could withstand any crisis. Now, as the first day of the new year stumbled ahead, she realized that this might no longer be true.

First, there had come the discovery of the Joker. Admittedly, when she had learned that the horrible creature that had put her in a wheelchair, murdered her stepmother, and had committed a thousand other atrocities in his atrocities, had been tortured and crucified her initial reaction had been simple and primitive: _The bastard finally got what was coming to him_. Now, however, as she, like Batman, realized the implications of this, she began to understand the magnitude of what was going on in Gotham City simply because there had been next to no chatter about the Joker from any of her sources. Since his escape he had demonstrated what seemed to be a remarkable amount of restraint in his behavior, which Barbara had taken as a bad sign --- if the Joker was quiet that inevitably meant he was planning something terrible. Yet almost none of her sources or intelligence had been able to find even a hint of where he might have been holed up. Somehow, though, what she had begun to call 'the undead underbelly of Gotham' had managed to succeed where they had failed and demonstrated their power in a spectacular fashion. In a very cold-blooded way, this was a giant thumbing of the nose by the vampires at the law of Gotham City and there would be no way to argue it any differently.

No sooner had she begun to understand this, a series of attacks occurred throughout the city. There was a gang shootout in the downtown section of the city which had escalated into a literal firefight--- an exploding car set part of the neighborhood on fire. The police had just responded to that when there had been reports of another major gang outburst ten miles to the north--- this time in the slum section of town. Attack after attack followed. Barbara knew enough warfare to realize what was going on; this was blitzkrieg meant to strain Gothams's police resources to the limit---- which it did in less than an hour. Even worse, when she had talked to her father about what was going on, he seemed detached and almost undisturbed about what was happening in his city. Her father had clearly come into a state of shock at the worst possible time--- which made Barbara certain that this was also part of the plan.

With the cops and the paramedics strung about as thin as they could, Barbara had contacted everyone else Gotham had fighting on the side of good. Batman had been dispatched to the eastern sector of the city; Robin had gone to the western sections; Faith had been dispatched to the south. That left only the northern section--- which was the part of Gotham that the clock tower was in. Barbara made a series of phone calls in which she tried to direct some of the police still around towards this area, but she knew that it was going to be a futile cause and she didn't want to be responsible for sending any more men to their deaths .

This, however, led to another problem --- one that Barbara knew was also an exercise but that, given the desperation of what was happening, that she knew she had to follow.

"Andrew, you have to do it now!" Barbara said as calmly as she could manage to the young man who had been holding court with her over the past six weeks. "The situation is becoming critical."

"How many times do I have to tell you that I don't know where he is?" A tone of stern defiance that most Sunnydale residents wouldn't have expected from the young geek was now in his voice. "Spike gets in touch with me; not the other way around!"

"Even when things are this bad?"

"Things are always this bad in California." Andrew spoke sarcastically but honestly. "The city is always just a few attacks away from destruction, and in case you've forgotten, LA's four times as big." Now a sardonic smile appeared. "Congratulations, Gotham has become Hellmouthish."

Oracle's nerves were stretched thin as it was. "Andrew, I'm getting more than a little tired of this bullshit."

"So this is all my fault?" said Andrew incredulously. "I suppose that you always know where Nightwing is?"

This was perfectly valid but Barbara didn't need this sore spot being picked. Dick had always been a lone wolf; it was what had led to his break with Batman the first time. When Spike had presented his idea to Nightwing, the young man had jumped on it with an eagerness that was typical of him. Barbara, who had extremely strong reservations about the idea, had been pretty pissed at how easily Dick had been willing to go along with it.

To say nothing as to how angry that she had been that Dick insisted that only a single, almost invisible, tracking device be given to him instead of a more powerful machine.

Soon after Nightwing had left with Spike, the signal had become faint until they reached the easternmost entrance into Crime Alley--- after which it completely disappeared. This could mean any number of things, ranging from the possibility that the heavy electronic activity regularly occurring in that part of town had drowned out the signal or to the most extreme scenario that Spike and Nightwing had been waylaid by Nicholae's gang members, found the tracking device with relative ease and gotten rid of both vampire and crime-fighter.

Barbara had been more inclined to believe Spike and Nightwing had been involved in some kind of fight which had damaged the device. Dick had a habit of not taking care where he got hurt in battle. This feeling – rationalization, hope, or whatever you want to call it—had grown fainter as each day had gone by and there was no communication from either one of them.

Perhaps what bothered her more than anything was Andrew's unflagging certainty that the two of them were all right despite having no evidence to back up that assertion. And now that the end of the world as they knew it seemed to be coming closer and closer, Barbara was getting more and more irate at this attitude from Andrew. This in itself was significant considering how normally slow to anger she rarely became. But these were desperate times and her emotions were floating closer and closer to the surface.

That was part of the problem. The action that Spike had suggested, that Dick had seized upon and that the rest of them had gone along with, had seemed something of the kind of desperate measure that seemed to be called for. Now the time for _real _desperation had arrived—and they had no other action to take.

Oracle drove her chair back over to Andrew with a determined look on her face. "Andrew, we can't wait around any longer," she said as she tried to find the right mixture of urgency and calm. "Whatever technology or magic or whatever the hell you use to reach Spike, you have to use it now."

"We won't need to resort to that." Andrew said in a calm tone that Barbara was beginning to find infuriating.

"Why the hell not?"

"Spike just got in touch with me."

For a moment Barbara was nonplused by this remark then a very obvious question occurred to her. "How did he do that?"

Andrew looked incredibly annoyed at the question before his expression softened. "When we arrived in Gotham Fred--- my friend from the science department--- came up with a device to use as a signal beacon. She gave the transmitter to me and the beacon to Spike and said it was for use in only the absolutely direst of cases."

Barbara was on the verge of getting pissed yet again. "And you didn't tell me this before because---"

"It was the absolute worst case 'unlock the suitcase with the code words that launch the missiles that start World War III' scenario."

"What does it do?"

"It's the pocket-sized equivalent of an EMP."

Now Barbara was worried. "You don't mean---"

Andrew nodded. "The science department at Angel-Slayer has some marvelous gadgets. One of the devices we found was a miniaturized version of the electromagnetic pulse. It has enough power to knock out all the electricity within a ten block radius for exactly ten seconds. By tracking down the radius of the inactive radius, my computer can triangulate the exact location where Spike is."

Oracle had heard of some rather than remarkable mechanical devices over the years, but she had never heard of anything--- not even from WayneTech--- that had this kind of capability. Which led her to ask '_Where does he work that he has technology like this?'_ and that question was immediately followed by '_What kind of place would use technology like this?'._ These were vitally important questions but ones that right now she couldn't ask.

She could, however, deal with something that was going to come up. "So in amidst of the city in danger of being overrun by havoc, you thought that the best way to maintain contact with your friend was by adding more chaos to the mess?" she said coldly.

"Like I said, it was only to be used in the worst-case scenario, which right now I think qualifies." Andrew said doggedly.

"Do you know how much trouble you---"

"Look," Once again Andrew's voice demonstrated the steel that was underneath it, "you want to get in my face about the mess that we're adding too later, fine. But right now, things are going from very bad to even worse, so let's deal with the problem, all right?"

Under normal circumstances Barbara would have pressed the point but, like Andrew had said, these weren't normal circumstances. So she held her peace and simply said, "Have you got a location on Spike?" she asked as calmly as she could manage.

"Thirty seconds and I will." Andrew began rapidly punching keys.

A series of numbers appeared on the screen for a few seconds before a miniature map of Gotham appeared. Barbara had just enough time to take in the fact that Andrew had somehow managed to hack into one of the weather satellites that flew over Gotham before it decreased in size until it was practically down to the size of a map.

"There he is." Andrew said with a certain measure of triumph in his voice. "The corner of Mulholland and Walsh."

Oracle looked at the screen. "Not bad, I'll admit. However, there are two things that you seem to have overlooked."

"You mean like how we get somebody to him?" Andrew said calmly. "According to the streets, he's in the eastern section of town, about three miles away from Batman's location. Tell your friend that if he can dispatch one of those mini-transport devices he has, he should be able to get one to Spike and Nightwing pretty quickly. Once they've linked up, they can figure things out from there."

"All right, but you've left out the other small problem."

"Which is?"

"That's where Spike and Dick were. How does knowing that help us locate them now?"

Not even this query seemed to perplex Andrew. "You don't need to look very hard to see where Spike has been fighting." He gave a small smile. "When he's at work, he always leaves a real neat trail of bread crumbs."


	19. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Spike had known that what Robson had asked of him as a final initiation was going to be very difficult to pull off. The only reason that he knew it would not be a _fait accompli_ was that, unknown to almost everyone, he had called Willow the day after his meeting with the vampire in the middle. After the young witch had gotten over her surprise at the question, she had said that it could be done --- but only with a combination of science and magic that would be very difficult to wield, the exact kind of science that Willow thought only Wolfram and Hart had access. Spike's own inkling that Batman had access to that kind of technology had proven correct and the day after he asked, Spike was provided with a cryogenic chamber capable of inducing hypothermia.

The biggest surprise had actually come four days earlier when Spike had told Nightwing what he needed him to do--- and the young man had said "All right" with almost no argument. Spike knew that most people--- including quite a few back in LA --- would have put up a much bigger fuss, but the young crime-fighter had said "fine" and calmly walked into a chamber that gradually released his body temperature to almost zero--- effectively killing him.

It had been afterward that things had gotten tricky (not that stopping a man's heart is a walk in the park) mainly because the only person who was capable of using the kind of magic required was Andrew. While Spike's opinion of the young geek he had been held prisoner with for several months had skyrocketed in the last few weeks, he still wasn't thrilled about have anyone who wasn't a board-certified witch performing these kinds of spells, but he knew he had no choice. These were the conditions he had set up, and he was going to have to operate within them.

After removing Nightwing from the cryogenic chamber, Spike had performed the requisite amount of medical work to get his heart started. Then, before Nightwing began to regain body heat, Andrew cast a stasis spell that would help revive him but keep him at room temperature.

They had to wait for more than an hour before performing the next step --- a spirit clouding spell, one that would make it appear to all but the most keen of vampires or demons that Nightwing no longer had a soul. This had been nearly as dangerous as freezing him had been because having two kinds of black magic operating this close to each other could have caused some kind of reaction that could make Nightwing's heart or brain to explode (Spike had left this particular tidbit out of his explanation to the other crime-fighters.) Then he had made sure of everything by adding one last element--- the most critical one in fact.

After Andrew had recited the last incantation Spike had asked rather bluntly, "How do you feel old sport?"

Nightwing HAD hesitated for quite a bit. Finally he shrugged, smiled and said, "Pretty good for a dead man."

This was a common joke among vampires, but Spike smiled at it regardless.

From then until nightfall Spike had sparred with Dick to make sure not only that he was physically fit but also that he showed no sign of fighting like someone who had just been defrosted. He knew that he was probably asking for trouble by doing so but he knew that it had to be done--- if Nightwing didn't fight like Nightwing they were both going to meet swift ends the minute they walked in the door.

Spike and Nightwing had then made their way towards the poorer section of town. This, too, had been fraught with peril as the blond vampire had been worried as to what would happen if any of the lower strata of Gotham had recognized Dick or worse, if one of them needed saving. Spike no longer liked the sound of hearing people scream in agony but he had the willpower to resist it some of the time. He wasn't so sure that Nightwing would have the power to let it go.

The streets had been quiet and eventually the two of them had made it to the dilapidated building that was a minor hide-out for Thor and Robson.

"You're telling me that this is where some of the vampires go to their mattresses?" Nightwing was still having trouble believing what he had been told.

"What, all of us have to live in castles in Transylvania?" Spike had asked.

"I'm just not sure how they could have been under my nose all this time without me having a clue."

"We can be subtle we have to be. Don't judge a book by its cover." Spike said as he walked up to the door and rapped three times. "Gino's Pizza. We got an extra large here," he said cheerfully.

There was a brief hesitation. "Spike? That you?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "Yes, Nestor, it's us."

"You've got that Wonder Boy with you?"

Now Dick was the one who looked pissed. "That's the other one, ass wipe," he said in as arrogant a tone as he could muster. "Let us in."

"How do I know you're the real NIghtwing?" Nestor was trying to sound clever and threatening and was doing a crappy job at it.

"When I rip the door off the hinges, you can see how the splinters show on my black uniform. Open the fucking door."

Nightwing had the mixture of threat and amusement in his voice that Nestor was trying for (and failing at) miserably. It did the trick because five seconds later the door was open. "Shee-it, you done it, Spike!" Nestor said in gleeful tone. "Come in, take a load off."

Thanking whoever was in charge that Nestor was thick enough to not try and test Dick's undead status by not inviting him in, Spike and Nightwing walked through the door, exchanging a mutual roll of the eyes.

Just as it had been the night Nestor had first revealed the hideout to Spike, the place was bustling with activity. This time, however, there were at least five or six more vampires than had been there before. They were familiar vampires too--- in addition to Thor and Q-Ball, two of the lower level vamp lieutenants, there were a couple of other higher-ups including Thor, who Spike hadn't seen in over a week. The place was also a lot louder--- several radios and computer screens had been turned on, and a lot of vampires were walking around and talking to each other. However, when several of the undead looked up and saw who Spike had brought into their hideout, the activity and the chatter slowed and eventually stopped.

Spike turned to Nightwing with a small smile. "Can't take you anywhere."

Thor was the first one to find his voice. "So this is the great and powerful Nightwing," he said as he walked over to Dick. "I must say I thought you'd be… taller."

"People have never complained about my size before," said Nightwing smoothly. "Besides it's not how big you are, its how you use it."

Spike was surprised; though he'd never seen it before Dick clearly had the vampire attitude down cold.

"Well, how do we know you're not alive?" Thor asked coolly.

"How do we know you're not a douchebag?" Dick said just as coolly. "Some things you just have to take on---"

Dick was abruptly interrupted when Thor grabbed him by his lapels and yanked. In one swift motion, Dick spun, kicked Thor in the chest and threw him nearly across the room right into a bookcase.

"Don't mess with the threads," Dick said as though he hadn't been interrupted. "It pisses me off."

Thor got up, looking like he was ready to do some kind of massive damage on Nightwing. Then a cold and authoritative voice spoke, "Enough of this foolishness."

Every eye in the room turned to the source of the voice. Even though there were nearly fifteen vamps in the room Spike had no trouble finding who had spoken.

The speaker was a vampire with so many scars and blemishes on his face that he made the Ubervamps look handsome. His posture was tall and stiff, his hands were practically claws and his eyes were narrowed and fervent. This was an _old_ vampire and judging from his looks and his accent Spike thought that he knew where and when he had been in his prime.

"Well," he said in a tone that mixed his typical arrogance with what he hoped was a certain amount of deference, "let me take a wild guess as to where you come from." The old vampire did not react so Spike went on. "You're one of the Carpathian Guards," He looked the vamp up and down. "I haven't seen one of you since the uprising in Budapest. Truth be told, I wasn't sure if any of you were still around."

The vampire acknowledged this with a small nod. "It is true that our numbers have thinned over the years. But--- how do they put it in this country --- I believe that people prefer quality to quantity." He gave a smile that showed one of the ugliest mouths Spike had ever seen, and that was saying something. "And I believe we are in the presence of William the Bloody."

"That is correct." Spike said cheerfully. "And you would be?"

The vamp clicked his heels together. "Kotaski, second-in-command to his Excellency Prince Nicholae."

Spike was disappointed but only marginally so. For one thing, over the past week he had come to realize that one of the strengths of this Prince was that he made as few appearances as possible. The less exposure, the less risk involved. For another, to have met the second- of command was no small thing. Indeed, he would probably have complete knowledge of everything that was happening in Gotham City to the smallest detail. He needed to get in good with this Kotaski and begin to find out what he knew. Fortunately, he had a wonderful housewarming gift.

"Well, Captain Kotaski," Spike said hoping he had chosen the proper phrasing (apparently he had, as Kotaski nodded after he spoke), "I will come straight to the point. I believe that I can be an asset to your master and to this organization."

Kotaski nodded and smiled. "I will not pretend that we're unaware of your reputation. While it may lack artistry, your lack of pretension is one that other vampires would do well to model themselves after."

Spike was pretty sure that Kotaski was 'handling' him but for the sake of what he was doing he played along. "From a member of the Guard that is a high compliment."

Kotaski put his hands together. "The problem is, considering your behavior over the last few years, many of my kind--- including his Excellency--- have been wondering which side you are truly on."

"I realize my character has recently been associated with some undesirable people," Spike said calmly. "But I believe that my work over the past couple of weeks would eliminate doubts to where I stand."

"Ah yes. Robson and Wallace have said many admirable things about you, and I take their word very seriously," Kotaski walked over to Spike. "The problem is--- well, there's no polite way to say this, so I will be blunt. Your behavior in the past, well, it has raised the possibility that you are--- how do you say--- playing us for patsies."

Kotaski put his hand on Spike's shoulder. The blond vampire wasn't happy with someone digging his claws into his leather jacket, but he knew better than to say so.

"Your work with this most recent Slayer, the times that you supposedly averted the end of the world, the way you--- exited this earthly plane the first time." Kotaski put his unpleasant face into Spike's "They seem to indicate that you care more for humans than for your own kind."

"Oh, give me a break!"

Everyone turned their attention from the outburst--- even Spike, who knew who it was coming from. "Nightwing," he said warningly.

Nightwing paid no attention to this. "The man kills me, turns me into one of you, drags me here like I'm some kind of basket of flowers, and you people still don't trust him? Shit, I died for this?"

Abruptly Kotaski turned his attention to Dick. "Surely, you have been instructed on how to properly treat your elders?"

He spoke with a small but unmistakable menace in his voice. Dick chose to ignore it. "You don't know me very well do you, Captain? I've always had a problem get along with my supposed elders and betters. It didn't matter whether they were police commissioners or supervillains, I have a big problem with authority figures, and I don't see why this should have changed merely because I am dead."

For a moment Spike was afraid that this honesty (which he agreed with in principle a hundred percent) would end up causing Dick to earn Kotaski's wrath. The Carpathian, however, continued to surprise him. "Your aggressive nature and attitude were part of the reason why the Prince wanted you to become one of us."

"Really?" said Nightwing incredulously. "I thought I was some kind of rite of passage for getting old Spike here in good with you…. people." He finished with a deliberate slur on the last word.

"That was part of it. But his Excellency is not like most people… or even most vampires," Kotaski said smoothly. "He does not do things for only a single reason. We admit we wanted a showing of Spike's loyalty, but there are other people in this city who he could have had killed and," here the Carpathian paused deliberately, "turned to do so. Some of whom would have been easier targets."

It was here that Spike had begun to feel the first bits of doubts on whether _he _had been played. Kotaski was right; there were two or three other people on the side of law and order who would have been easier for him to kill and change (if he had set his mind to actually do it, of course). Something was clearly going on here, something far more sinister than an initiation.

"Part of the reason that we demanded this was…" Kotaski trailed off, "Well, why don't you take a guess?"

Dick hadn't had to think very long; Spike came up with the same reason within a few seconds. "You wanted me because of my relationship to Batman, right?"

Kotaski put his hand on Nightwing's should. "Well done, young man. Alive, you were one of the few men who can have actively challenged the Bat in hand to hand combat, correct?"

For a second it looked like Dick's face was about to flush at the Carpathian's comment--- which would have blown the game right then. Fortunately for the both of them, the cold and the stasis spell made it impossible for Dick's face to change. "I'm flattered you think so highly of me, _Mister _Kotaski, but I believe you have miscalculated."

"We have overestimated your skills?" Now Kotaski _was_ baiting the young crime-fighter. Dick had chosen to ignore it.

"Rather you have underestimated Batman," Nightwing said coolly. "He's had no problems dealing with your people up to this point. And as much as I hate to admit it, he was a far better fighter than me. I don't know what you think I'm capable of but I'm pretty sure that fighting with Batman would just leave me in a pile of dust."

Kotaski considered this for a moment. "I think that you underestimate your skills as a fighter as well as what you can now do since you have been--- enhanced," he said slowly. "But let us act on the assumption, for now, that you are correct. "

At that moment Kotaski's face changed subtly. It was not as obvious as the demonic face that vampires usually used--- Spike thought that Kotaski was too old a vampire to have that usual power. Rather the change was from genial to menacing. Spike suddenly got the idea that the Carpathian was getting tired of this game.

"There are, however," Kotaski continued to speak in the faux genial tone that he had been using before, "other ways to destroy the Batman; ones that only you could provide."

To Nightwing's credit, he didn't plead ignorance. "You want me to tell you Batman's secret identity," he said calmly.

"Exactly."

Nightwing kept playing this. "What if I told you I had no idea who Batman was beneath the mask?"

"I would say that you are a very bad liar," Now any pretense of subtlety was gone from Kotaski's voice. "Then I would slice your belly open and shred your innards."

And then Spike realized how thoroughly he had been used. "This was never about me, was it?" he said softly. "This was all about finding a back door into Batman's lair, wasn't it?"

"Don't sell yourself short," said Kotaski mildly. "What you have done for us is no small feat." He had begun to circle Dick warily. "If, of course, that is what you have done."

And without any warning he took out a small vial and threw the contents on to Dick--- whose skin promptly started to steam.

Nightiwing then grabbed Kotaski by the lapels. "If you weren't such an important vampire I'd throw you through the window. I'm really getting tired of all this horseshit."

"I'm getting pretty tired of this crap myself." said Spike indignantly. In fact, he was feeling one of the greatest senses of relief he'd had a while. The last spell he had Andrew perform on Nightwing --- an illusory spell that was about as close to reality as you could make it--- had been one of the more complicated ones he'd ever heard a civilian use. If Andrew had gotten one word wrong, there would have been a very good possibility that he could have turned Dick's flesh to liquid. Yet even that end might have been preferable to what Kotaski would have done if the spell hadn't worked.

"What did you expect?" spoke up Robson angrily. "That you would just show up with Nightwing, say he's a vampire and we'd accept on faith that you'd done it? "

Yes, Spike admitted to himself, that was exactly what exactly what he'd been expecting. Now he realized that up until this point, he had thought that any organization that had a wanker like Nestor as one of its soldiers and Robson and Thor as its underbosses wasn't one that could be regarded as a viable threat. Now it was clear that he had seriously underestimated the Prince and that it was only by the slimmest of threads that they hadn't been chopped to pieces by now.

Throughout all this Kotaski reverted back to the level of faux calm that he had maintained earlier in the proceedings. Now it was really stating to seem exasperating, especially considering that the Carpathian had just been manhandled by someone who'd supposedly been his sworn enemy a day before. "I understand your frustration," he said coolly. "But we have to proceed calmly and in an orderly fashion."

Spike could not restrain himself. "What is this, a bloody fire drill?"

Kotaski ignored Spikes outburst and calmly removed Nightwings hands from his jacket. "Now that we are sure of your nature, you must now prove your loyalty to us."

"Who do you want me to kill?" Dick said snidely.

Now Kotaski appeared even more amused. "Patience, sir. That will come in good time. We ask for something far less provoking."

"And that would be?"

"Remove your mask. Let us see who the true Nightwing is."

They had now come to the sticking point. Spike had been pretty sure that this was going to become an issue but he wasn't sure if the young man could unmask himself in front of the enemy.

Apparently Nightwing had considered this himself because he hesitated long enough to put doubt into anybody's mind. Finally, he shrugged and untied his cowl.

There was yet another long uneasy silence as the vampires in the room looked at the face of the man who had caused them so much trouble whether they had been alive or not.

It didn't surprise Spike who spoke first. "Well shit fire and save matches!" drawled Nestor. "Goddamnit, all these years we've been afraid of an acrobat!!"

This got under Dick's skin in a way that few things could have. "I was proud of my family. Proud of my name," he said in a glacial tone. "Can you say the same, Maddox?"

"It does beg the question as to if you were so proud of your family that you did your work wearing a mask." Kotaski spoke, interrupting what could have easily become a fight between the two hotheads. "But this is not the time or place to discuss one's birth parents. Rather it is time for us to embrace our new family."

Dick definitely did not like this idea and, to be honest, Spike wasn't wild about it either. The idea of being related to some of these vampires did not fill with him joy--- he didn't even want to be in the same room with some of them. The old Spike would have just killed some of these vamps and been done with it. But then, if the old Spike had been here—he wouldn't have been here, would he?

Spike's musings came to an abrupt end when Dick spoke up again. "I don't particularly want to be related to you or _him" _he said, pointing to Nestor (who still seemed stuck on the fact that he was Dick Grayson), "but I think that the ship has pretty much sailed on that. I've unmasked, what else do you want from me?"

"You've now asked that question twice, and you've known the answer both times." Kotaski said calmly.

"Knowing who he is won't be enough to stop him. Others have learned his identity, attempted to destroy him--- and failed."

Spike was not wild about how much Dick was stalling, but now that they were in the middle of this mess he realized they were now at the snap-point. Nicholae's plans and the fate of Gotham City were now in the balance and right now everything depended on their being able to pull this off. It was now or never, so he might as well force the issue.

"You're diddling around on us, kid," he said harshly. "Tell us who the bloke is. I must admit, I'm more than a little curious myself."

To his credit Dick got the message. "All right." He turned to Kotaski. "I will tell you. And I will tell the Prince." He faced the others. "But I will not tell them," he said gesturing to the others in the room." Especially not _him,_" he said pointing emphatically at Spike.

There was more than a little grumbling at this. "Why not?" asked Kotaski mildly.

"Whether you intend to kill him or turn him doesn't really matter to me--- although he could cause you a lot more trouble dead than alive," Dick looked Kotaski right in the face. "But he should meet his end at the hands of one who is truly his master, not at those of a cheap dime store hood." He looked back at the others with extreme disdain.

Now the vampires grumbled even louder. Some very unpleasant words were being used now. But again they were silenced when Kotaski glared at them.

He turned back to Dick. "Why do you care so much as to who kills him?" he said calmly.

"I don't," said Dick bluntly. "But I also know his limits and abilities a lot better than you do. I've seen him take out ten of you in one fight without breaking a sweat. Now you can either waste time and manpower by sacrificing how many soldiers you want to throw at him or you can do what you're gonna do anyway and kill him yourself."

There was a long hesitation as Kotaski considered this. "Very well." He said slowly, putting his arm on Nightwing's shoulder that seemed anything but friendly. "Come with me."

And he and Dick walked off into another room closed off by a steel door--- one of the few things that could prove a barrier to the extraordinary hearing of vampires.

Spike honestly had no idea what was going to happen next. Dick and Tim had had no problem revealing their identities to the others. But Batman had absolutely refused to give any inkling as to who was really behind the mask. For a while Spike had admired this but he had eventually thought that, considering everything Spike and Faith had revealed to him, Batman was being a prick. Now he suddenly realized the wisdom that the Caped Crusader had shown in keeping everything that he could hidden for as long as he could.

Then something else occurred to Spike--- something so obvious he wondered how he could have overlooked it. Though he was very intelligent, Spike was one of those vampires who had difficulty seeing every possible consequence of every action. So maybe it wasn't a huge surprise that he had missed something this obvious when it had come to Nightwing. Batman, however, was a lot smarter and would never have missed something like that--- especially when the safety of his city was at stake. Ergo, he would not have let Dick put himself in this situation even when he accepted the risks.

Yet that was exactly what he had done --- or had he?

Spike had only met with Batman three times since he had come to Gotham City, yet he'd gotten a good glimpse at the nature of the man. He believed that the Dark Knight (the only sobriquet that fit the man; Caped Crusader made him sound like a cartoon) was one of the smartest people he'd met in the last few years. The man was not book-smart; he clearly had the intellect of the great military men like Montgomery or Kitchener – he knew where, when and how to strike against the enemy (in this case, even when they were dead). Like a chess grandmaster, he could see three or four moves ahead on the board in everything and there was no way he couldn't have seen this coming. He had to have some kind of countermove planned but Spike couldn't figure out what it would be.

Just then Kotaski and Dick emerged from behind the steel door. Both of them gave nothing away on their faces. Everybody looked forward expectantly.

"His Excellency has had a strategy regarding the Batman whatever his identity might be. Mr. Grayson has been good enough to tell me and Master Nicholae who he really is, and while we were both surprised--- and somewhat amused--- to know who he really is, neither of us can see any reason to change the plan."

_How did Nicholae hear this? _Spike thought to himself but did not say. Right now he had to be Mr. Cool. The other vampires didn't seem thrilled by this but they all knew well enough to keep their complaints to themselves.

"There are two days until the end of the year." Kotaski continued smoothly. "I want the word to go out to everyone who works for us. Everything must remain at this level of activity until 12:05 A.M January 1st." Now a smile with a horrible good humor appeared on the Carpathian's face. "Then we shall ring in the New Year and reap what we have sown."

There was a general rumbling of approval. Spike figured now was the time. "Does that mean that I finally get to do a decent bit of violence?" he asked cheekily.

Kotaski smiled at Spike. When he spoke his tone was approving. "Indeed Spike. Now is your time. Show the city what we are capable of."

"When does the plan call for us to handle the Bat?" Thor spoke up bravely. Many vamps cringed, including Spike, but Kotaski surprised them.

"The Bat is scheduled to be last on the list. During the next few days we will be wearing him down. When we're finished with the rest of the city and Batman is at his nadir, we will eliminate him and Gotham will be ours."

A vampire Spike hadn't been introduced to spoke up. "When do we learn his name?"

Kotaski fixed the upstart with a probing gaze. "Like everything else in this war, you get what information we tell you_ when _we tell you." The smile reappeared on Kotaski's face. "And now we will begin with tonight's work."


	20. Chapter 19

_D, I made some changes here and there. Just read through it, and do what you like, of course. If you want more done, just let me know._

_-A._

Chapter 19

For the next two days Spike and Nightwing were busy serving (as Spike had put it) 'the orders of General Disarray'. That had involved a lot of destruction of property (most of it very illegal), the making of anonymous phone calls implicating gang members in crimes that they hadn't planned on committing, and most mysterious of all, the placing of innocuous seeming objects in homes, offices and other sites belonging to high-level crooks. This had puzzled even Spike until he learned from Thor that the objects had previously belonged to the Scarecrow. The implications behind that were obvious, and they made Spike even more nervous about the explosiveness of the situation.

Much to the relief of both, neither Spike nor Nightwing were asked to commit any murders, which had been a sore point with both Nightwing and Batman when the plan had first been proposed. Spike was slightly suspicious of this until Nestor explained that everyone that their boss wanted to be dead or undead had been turned. "Any more gangster vampires turn up and its gonna be another case of too many cooks, if you know what I mean," Nestor had told Spike as he elbowed him in the ribs.

It took some effort for Spike to not shove the cornpone vamp through a plate-glass window. He had hoped that having passed his 'initiation' that Nicholae and the others would bump him to a level where he didn't have to work with the Southern-fried idiot. 

Kotaski, however, had told him to keep working with Nestor, saying that they had some kind of 'camaraderie ' that was useful in the plan. Since the Carpathian had to know how irritating Nestor was to everyone, Spike assumed that there was one of two reasons he was insisting on it: Nestor was a test as to where Spike's flare point was, or he wanted Nestor to keep an eye on z because, for all the goodwill that he had shown, Kotaski (and by extension Nicholae) still didn't trust him.

Spike was more inclined to believe that it was the latter, as Nestor was clinging to them like he was moss. Neither he nor Dick had been given more than a moment's peace since they had begun this little joyride. That had been a problem, as neither of them had been able to contact anyone in a position of authority. Spike had begun to wonder whether Dick had been too hasty in not taking some kind of tracking device with them---- being alone in the kingdom of the enemy didn't seem like such a good idea, anymore.

But when you got right down to it, Spike admitted to himself, even if they had been able to lead the good guys to this building it probably wouldn't have done enough damage to the Prince's plan. Nicholae was organized and efficient to the point of almost being anal, but it worked. For all the vampires he had met, Spike didn't think that he'd met more than a tenth a number of the army the Prince had assembled, and that didn't even count for however many plants Nicholae had in the syndicates by now. Never mind the fact that they still had no idea as to where the Prince was --- killing the head probably wouldn't kill the body.

So, they followed their only remaining option: play this out. They had been fortunate - their wait had only been for one more night. Spike thought that this Prince, despite his brilliant approaches to dividing his forces, destroying the enemy from within and his approach to the heroes, he was still something of a stickler for symbolism. Considering all the work the Prince had done in Gotham, his forces likely could have launched a successful and debilitating attack as much as a month earlier than it was planned they would; to wait for the beginning of the New Year left the Prince open to sorts of attacks.

Then 11 o'clock had come--- and the plans began to steam roll ahead. When Spike learned what had happened to the Joker, he had been impressed and even more unsettled as to what might await him if he were defeated. Dick's reaction had been even more alarming --- he had gone a shade whiter then Spike would have thought possible. Even Nestor, vacant as he was, had picked up on it.

"What the hellfire's got you all turned around?" As always, the southern-fried idiot couldn't see the nose in front of his face.

"It's just--- me and Batman spent years--- years--- trying to stop that smiling freak and you and your friends just---" Dick shook his head in a wonder that Spike knew was not fake.

"You're telling me," For a moment Nestor turned serious. "That's how strong our boy Kotaski is. He looked at number one felon in the world in the eyes and then ripped them clean out of his head. Guess even the Bat'll think twice about fucking with us now."

"Not a chance," said Dick, frowning. "That son-of-a-bitch doesn't know when he's beaten."

Nestor turned jovial again. "He will when we're all through with him."

For the next four hours things, steadily accelerated. By two AM, the rumpus had quickened, and violence was breaking out all over the city. By three AM, half of the families in Gotham were fighting the other half.

Now, as a clock in the distance chimed four times and with dawn still hours away, Spike and Nightwing had come to the agreement that they couldn't keep up the pretense any longer. If they kept screwing around, there might not be a Gotham left to save.

"Alright," Dick said as they pulled away from the pack of undead felons they had been fighting alongside to keep throwing fuel on the fire (figuratively _and _literally) "…how exactly do you intend to stop this?"

That was a good question. "Well…" Spike said slowly "I generally find that when faced with an overwhelming number of enemies, it is best to start small and work your way up."

Dick nodded. "We deal with the thirteen would-be bad-asses we're with now?"

"Yes," said Spike. "However, since thirteen is not divisible by two, someone has to be dusted right now." Spike smiled, chuckling under his breath. "And I have the perfect vamp in mind for it."

Almost as if it was his cue, Nestor emerged from around the corner. "What are y'all jawboning about?" he said in his irritating drawl.

Spike didn't even have to look at Nightwing. "Well, you see," he said, moving cool as a cucumber towards Nestor " Dick and I have been having a little argument and maybe you can provide us with a little perspective."

Nestor gave another shit-eating grin. "Well, sure thing Billy Boy, what do you got in mind?"

Spike pretended to think for a second before answering him. "Well--- how do I put this--- we're trying to figure out to the biggest pillock that either of us has ever met."

Even as his end approached, Mrs. Maddox's only son remained as blissfully ignorant as he had been during most of his time on the planet. "And a pillock is…" he said, trailing off.

"You." said Spike flatly as he moved. Before Nestor could even react, Spike had already kicked him in the head, punched him in the chest and pulled a stake from under his jacket.

Up until now, Nestor's reactions had been so slow that Spike figured that it would be easy to kill him. Unfortunately, in these, his last few minutes on earth, Nestor seemed to have developed a knack for self-preservation. He shouted out "_HELP!"_ at the top of his lungs before throwing a punch at his attacker.

Spike fell back, more out of surprise than from the force of the punch. He resigned himself to the fact that nothing was free, tonight, and began to fight Nestor.

Throughout his un-life as a vampire, Nestor had always utilized a barroom brawl style of fighting whenever he was in action. Though it was (very) primitive, this style was usually effective among the typical class of vampire found in this day and age. Spike, however, had this kind of fighting down cold for longer than Nestor had been around, living or dead. He had instigated more than his share of barroom brawls over the years, and didn't have a great deal of trouble countering every punch or kick that Nestor threw.

While they were fighting, Nestor started speaking. He couldn't seem to get over the fact that Spike had betrayed him. "How in the sand hill can you do this to me?" he said as he bobbed and weaved. "I thought we were pals!"

"Well that just goes to prove—" Spike said as he dodged and parried "…how you were the…" He landed a right cross on Nestor's jaw " most idiotic…" a kick was dodged as he continued "pecker-headed…", and then an uppercut slipped past his ear a moment later "inbred, goose-stepping…" a high kick followed it as Spike got himself ready to finish the fight "…dyed-in-the-woo-l idiot- redneck that I have had the displeasure of knowing!"

And, suddenly tired of all the John L. Sullivan crap that he was doing, Spike then landed one of the most glorious kicks in the balls that he had ever delivered. "Woof!" said Nestor as he fell, clutching himself.

"And, by the bye," Spike said the moment before he plunged the wood into the redneck vamps heart, "…Dukes of Hazard, worst piece of craps I've ever watched! " A look of extreme hurt appeared on Nestor's face the second before he turned to dust.

"I should have done that thirty years ago," Spike said as he turned his attention back to Nightwing.

Dick, however, had no time to respond (not even to ask Spike what the hell that last remark had to do with anything) and Spike realized why a second later. Even in dissolving Nestor was a huge pain in the ass, because his cry for help and screams of pain had been more than sufficient to bring the other vamps from around the corner (Spike would later marvel at their discipline; he was pretty sure that most of the pack hated Nestor as much as he did). The first vamp saw what was going on and delivered a shout of his own. "They're liars! Dust the bastards!" 

And, just as though a clown car had pulled up, the other vamps began to seemingly appear out of nowhere--- all looking pissed and all ready to kick some ass.

As he and Nightwing readied themselves to fight, Spike assessed their situation. Despite his earlier bravado, he knew the odds were against them. These vamps weren't rookies. Many of them had been tough and slippery when they were alive, and they had become even more so after they'd been turned. Spike had seen more than a few of them in action in the past month. All of them were going to be pains in the ass to kill. They showed he was correct right away by _not _doing what happens every time a dozen men fought Bruce Lee--- attack one at a time. No, they were coming at Dick and Spike from every angle, somehow managing to surround the two in a near perfect cage.

Still, they were fighting a man who had been kicking evil's ass since he was fifteen and a vampire who'd been in his prime when most of them had still been wearing diapers. A slim edge for the enemy, but both Spike and Nightwing had faced far worse ones.

As the six of his opponents circled around, Spike did what he'd done in every fight he'd been in since the Boxer Rebellion. Everything around him that wasn't important was shut out of his mind. The buildings, the smell of gunpowder and buildings burning, the sounds of police cars and fire engines racing across the city. 

There was nothing but him at the vamps he was fighting. Admittedly, given their number, and the level of noise around them, it was a lot harder than usual, but Spike had been having fights like this a lot longer than them.

Three of them --- one black, one Latino and one Italian--- soon had him in the middle of a human cage. All three were strong and hostile, as well as having the rare quality (in this time) of being skilled strategists. The ones on his left and right kept trying to kick his legs out from under him, which forced him to turn in order to block or dodge the kick, and every time he did, the third would throw a punch towards his head and neck.

_Wonderful, _he thought as he continued their elaborate dance. _ I'm going to be killed by the sodding Rainbow Coalition _

After a few minutes, Spike realized that three was a crowd, but that four was a goddamn parade. A moment later, he realized that if he was to have any chance of surviving the fight, he had to go straight up the middle and take out the center square. 

_Too bad I was never much good at rugby,_ he thought as he turned and charged the Italian. The Italian was a little stunned by the act and allowed himself to be pushed back a few inches before beginning to push back. Realizing he had at most a few more seconds Spike pulled another stake out of his jacket and thrust upward with it. The Italian didn't loosen his grip and held on tight until the wood pierced his heart and dusted him.

Spike, however, had no time to celebrate the victory before one of the Italian's friends took advantage of the shift in Spike's focus to stab him in the back with a switchblade.

It is common myth that vampires are invulnerable, save for stakes through the heart, crosses and holy water. However, getting what would normally be a mortal wound for a human still isn't exactly fun for a vampire. Spike uttered a cry of pain and felt his legs turn rubbery. For a moment, it felt like they were going to give. 

The black vamp seemed to think so too, and he came a little too close. Even as Spikes world became little more than a symphony of pain, he had more than enough energy to grab the vamp and throw him into a traffic light.

When his enemy stumbled back toward him with a broken nose, he was unsteady on his feet. "Here," Spike said "…let me give you a hand." He moved in, bringing up the hand with the stake in it. He managed to drive it into the black's chest before his knees finally gave and he stumbled to the ground.

Fortunately, someone quickly pulled him to his feet. Unfortunately, that somebody was the Latino, who then threw Spike against a dumpster. The steel of the trash bin hit him in the back and he collapsed to the ground in a heap.

He knew that the last vamp was going to get him, but his back was now a mountain of agony and he just couldn't seem to find his feet.

"Wonderful…" he muttered. "I've fallen and I can't get up."

The Latino moved in quickly. Spike looked around for help, but Nightwing was nowhere to be seen. Of course his sightline had just been reduced to about ten feet in front of him, but Spike figured if Nightwing wasn't there, then his goose was pretty much cooked. He continued to think that right until the Latino dissolved into a pile of ash before his eyes.

Astounded by the turn of events, Spike managed to recover enough to get back to his feet. Though he wouldn't know it until much later Nightwing--- who was just as occupied holding up his end of the fight--- had seen the trouble that his companion was in, pulled out a stake and making a throw that Willie Mays would have marveled at, hit the Latino dead center in the chest with it. 

Spike, unfortunately, had no time to utter a thank you, or to even think about what had happened because three others had replaced the three dusted vamps. Worse, one of them was Thor, the man-mountain that Spike had first reported to when he pretended to side up with the Prince.

"So you've double crossed us," said Thor as he stared down at Spike. "Or is it triple-crossed? I've lost count of the number of times that you've betrayed your own." He frowned.

The backhanded slap that followed would have been enough to send a welterweight champion reeling. In Spike's case, it made him lose his already shaky footing. He was, however, prevented from falling by the two remaining heavies who grabbed him and held him standing.

"I never trusted you, Spike. Not for a second" Thor said arrogantly, "…and if it seemed like I did, it was only because my superiors thought that you could be _useful_." The hulk snorted at that. "Pretty hard to believe vampires that smart could be that dumb."

"Doesn't say—much for the success--- of this plan." Spike managed to gasp out. Thor's response was to slap him again.

"A minor miscalculation, Spike, and one that can easily be rectified." Thor smiled at Spike, face-to-face with the other vampire. "I imagine that I'll get one hell of bonus for taking you out of the picture at last."

Spike couldn't hold back. "Maybe. Or maybe the real Batman'll kick your ass to kingdom come."

This provoked a reaction, although it was not the one that Spike had been hoping for. "Oh please," Thor said as he laughed and spat. "By the time the Dork Knight gets around to us, he'll be in no condition to fight anyone."

"Really." Spike managed a weak smile, trying to project an arrogance he didn't feel. He wanted some information, and not just for its strategic value. "I've seen Bat in action from a much closer distance then you probably have. What makes you so sure that he won't chop His Excellency into toothpicks?"

"Well, you see—" The vamp on his left began to answer before he got a slap in the kisser from Thor.

"For crying out loud!" the vampire-lieutenant said, clearly annoyed. "Don't you remember 'Goldfinger', for crying out loud?"

_I always knew those bloody Bond movies would ruin villainy, _Spike thought to himself, exasperated. Right now, however, more important things concerned him than 007, such as… "What have you done with Mr. Grayson?" he asked calmly.

In answer, Thor stepped aside to reveal something that made Spike even unhappier about how things were going. Two vampires, one of whom Spike recognized as another of the prince's lieutenants, Pascal, were holding Nightwing very tightly, while other vamps on either side of him were holding pretty big guns.

Spike did the math quickly. He and Dick had managed to reduce the number holding them to seven, which was good work. Their luck, however, seemed to have run out with that. Both he and Spike were firmly held in place by the flunkies. The vampires were far bigger and meaner than either of them, and Spike could see that the belt that Nightwing had been wearing that contained all those useful gadgets swinging around Pascal's neck. They definitely seemed to be up shit creek without a paddle--- no weapons, no way to get help---

Wait a tick. They did have one thing. Admittedly, it was a long shot, and meant to be used only in a worst-case scenario—but Spike was pretty sure this qualified as one. The problem was going to be getting into his coat pocket for it.

"Now," said Thor, punching his hands together menacingly "…we're going to kill both of you, that's understood. And getting rid of Spike won't cause much of a problem, even with the cleanup. The question, Mr. Grayson, is what we should do with you." He walked over to Dick. "Turning you--- and I mean doing it for real this time, Mr. Grayson--- might be beneficial in the short run. But looking at things in the long view--- and that's the only way we really do look at things--- you present us with many more problems being undead then you do alive." 

He began to walk around Nightwing, like a vulture circling his prey--- which was, Spike admitted, basically what he was. "The only reason that I can see for turning you is that you could give us something that for some reason Nicholae is screwing around with…" Thor turned and faced the horizon. "Where and how to find Batman."

A moment of genuine confusion hit Spike. "You're telling me that Kotaski never gave you Batman's identity?"

For a moment Thor seemed embarrassed. "For reasons which must make sense to him but not to us, Nicholae has told us that he will reveal Batman's identity only to those who need to know." Thor said, almost sounding ashamed.

"Really?" Suddenly Spike knew how he was going to get to the device in his coat and could even see an ironic way of getting the device activated. "'Cause I can tell you how to get him here right quick."

"That would be a neat trick," said Pascal "…considering that right now he's halfway across town."

"The left pocket of my duster…" said Spike, lies coming as smoothly as buttermilk "I've got something that I took from Dickie Bird while I was prepping him…"

"… To imitate being one of us just to get you in good with Kotaski?" said Thor, his tone sarcastic.

It was a testament to the pace and fury of the last few hours that Spike had momentarily forgotten the ruse he had played. "Geeze, when you put it like that…" he said, half in jest.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." said Pascal in the same vein. "Please try and describe this in a way that makes you come out the hero."

"And while you're at it," added Thor "…can you give us one good reason that we should believe anything you tell us, now?"

Unfortunately, that was a valid point. It was time to stop being disingenuous and do some outright lying. "All right. I've been working with Nightwing from the get-go. We were trying to flush out his Excellency, him because of the dent you've been making in the homeless population; me because I now occasionally fight on the side of justice and puppies and all that crap." Spike began to talk faster because he now saw that Thor had brought out a stake. "Anyway, when we started this undercover shit, he gave me this emergency locator device. According to him you press a button, you send up one of those Bat Signal thingies."

"And he trusted you with just one," said Thor doubtfully.

"No, I figure he's got a couple of those on him somewhere. This is the one he gave me."

"You rotten bastard!" Nightwing yelled at Spike. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

_Good, _Spike thought to himself,_ you're playing it alright but don't oversell it_ "I'm sorry, Richard m' boy," he said in as humble a tone he could manage "It's been nice fighting with you, but I gotta look out for myself."

By now Thor was fishing through his coat looking for the device. "What's make you think that we'll spare you just because you give us the Bat?" he said loudly.

"I don't," Spike said honestly, "but at this point I'm out of trick and whatever I have to do to save myself I'm gonna do."

Thor was now looking at the apparatus. Fortunately the people at Angel-Slayer had made it look fairly innocuous --- it was a black plastic square, no more than six inches long on any side, with a small blue button in the center. "So if I push this button, then Batman will know where we are." He said slowly, glancing at the item in his hand.

"Believe me, Thor," Spike said coolly, "push that button, and you will definitely get his attention."

Thor considered this for what seemed to be for hours but Spike knew had to be less than a minute. Finally, Thor put his finger on the button. "After this, one of you is going to die."

Spike hoped he would be able to make this threat work for instead of against him but it all depended on a single hope.

Thor pressed the button, and the results were almost instantly clear. In the space of five seconds, the streetlights, the lights in the building they were in and every other light on the street blinked out all at once. 

All of them were taken by surprise by this--- even Spike, who had known what was coming. However, his reactions and movements were far faster than any of the others. In the brief seconds of darkness he reacted quickly against the momentarily distracted henchmen. One might say that his movements were faster than the speed of dark.

Dick reacted nearly as quickly against the vamps restraining him. By the time the lights were on again, three of the seven left had been dispatched. One of the dusted was Pascal, so the enemy had been reduced to Thor and his three flunkies. 

The three henchmen were clearly unnerved by what he and Dick had done when the lights went out. Thor, however, didn't seem disturbed in the slightest. "Nice trick," he said coolly. " Helped you get the jump on them."

Then he leapt forward and kicked Spike in the small of his back. Before Thor's foot had landed, his back was still in excruciating pain. After that, it got worse, if that could happen. Spike collapsed to the ground, trying to deal with the sensation. 

Thor walked up to Spike with two of the remaining henchmen. "You really thought that some penny ante light show was going to help you beat _me, _Spike_?"_ Emphasizing his extreme displeasure with what had just happened, he kicked Spike in the jaw.

_Dickie boy, where the hell are you?_

It was a relevant question, but one Spike thought was never going to get answered. Thor's henchmen had grabbed Spike by the arms and lifted him to his feet.

"You may think that you've done a bit of damage here tonight, Spike," Thor said as he came up in to Spike's face "but all you've done is spit in the ocean. Doesn't matter what you or your friends in capes do; in one week this city will be ours, and Batman's head will be on a pike to warn off any of our other enemies."

Thor paused, and then took out a knife long enough to be a machete. "Too bad we won't be able to display your head," he said with a smile. "Spike on a pike--- pretty poetic, huh?" The smile disappeared. "Third times the charm, right?"

Thor brought the machete up in an arc. It seemed like Spike's goose was cooked.

And exactly one second later Thor was burning. As big and tough as he had been, in the end he screamed as loud and painfully as anyone else would have, human or otherwise.

The two vampires who were holding Spike reacted exactly as you expect someone to react when they're near a burst of flame, and jumped backwards to avoid it.

Unfortunately for them, they had to let go of Spike to do it. Fortunately for Spike, he had managed to grab on to Thor's machete before they were able to. With a wide swing, he cut the head off one of the henchmen, who promptly exploded into dust.

The second, having seen ten of his comrades dispatched in less than fifteen minutes, did the most sensible thing that he could have done. He ran. For a moment, Spike considered chasing the last one down and pumping him for information. Then he decided, _The hell with it. _His back and his jaw hadn't yet recovered from the beating they had just taken, and in any case they had other and far bigger fish to fry.

Speaking of which… "You know, Richard," Spike said angrily, "you could have set _me_ on fire with one of those flares you just used. "

Dick looked down at his newly recovered utility belt. "That was a possibility, " he answered Spike calmly. "But considering how you've handled the last couple of days, I figured seeing you go up in flames would be an upside to this Night of a Thousand Screams we seem to be going through."

Spike was royally pissed now. The last few days--- hell, the last few months--- had been as draining on him as it had been on the rest of the law enforcement officials. Now that they were in the middle of what felt like a collaborative effort of Martin Scorcese and George Romero, he was tired of having everybody question his loyalty. Hell, _HE_ wasn't even sure which side he was supposed to be betraying. What he felt like doing right now was taking out his aggression on Dick and fuck the consequences.

But he knew that he couldn't, and he knew that Dick, despite all his anger, couldn't do it, either. There were bigger and far worse problems ahead of them and miles to go before they slept.

So, after a moment, he uncurled his fists and calmly spoke. "I'm sorry that, in spite of everything I've done to keep you alive in the last week, you still don't trust me, Richard." 

He held up his hand before Dick could interject. "However, we have long since passed the point where we can be suspicious of each other. This city is now in the process of self-destruction and you and I are among the few people who might be able to stop it. On that contingency I am asking you to set aside your doubts and help me help you help Gotham."

Dick considered this for what felt like a very long thirty seconds. Finally, he walked up towards Spike. "In case I've been unclear, helping someone like you goes against everything I've been doing since I was fourteen."

"Gee, and you were so sweet about it before." Spike mumbled.

'Furthermore, since your methods have involved stopping my heart, doing massive property damage and blacking out Gotham for ten seconds, I'm not really sure your way is better, Spike."

There was a long silence. "But?" Spike pressed.

"Actually, those are pretty good arguments." admitted Nightwing. _"_But you're right. Things have started to blow up around here. If we don't start pulling together, we may end up dying apart."

Spike started to breathe a sigh of relief, and then remembered he didn't breathe. He settled for saying, "All right now. " Then he saw something on the horizon and for the first time began to believe that there might be something to hope for. "What do you say we blow this popsicle stand?"

"And go where?" asked Dick.

"Well, that little car might give us a clue."

Dick turned and saw what Spike had: one of the miniature Bat Cycles. His voice showed some slight nostalgia. "Haven't been on one of those in a while." He shook his head. "But even if we've got a ticket to ride, we still don't have any idea of what to do next."

"I'm not sure either," acknowledged Spike, "but right now I think that we'd better do what the halfwits in Sunnydale whenever they faced a new wrinkle."

"Which would be?" Nightwing pressed.

"A group meeting in the Magic Box where they'd come up with a strategy." Spike considered what he'd just said. "There isn't a magic shop in Gotham, is there?"

"You think we need more magic to beat Nicholae?"

"I think," admitted Spike "we'll be needing all sorts of magic to stop this Big Bad."

_Edits finis _


	21. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Barbara had hope that the coming of dawn would cause the violence in Gotham to ebb, at least long enough for the police and the other rescue workers in the city to gain some kind of control over the situation. Unfortunately, while she-- and everyone else in Gotham-- were focused on the crisis within the city, a problem she hadn't expected had emerged.

The media in Gotham had gone wild when the Joker's crucifixion became public knowledge. For months, they had become intensely frustrated that the police and various high-ranking executives had put a freeze on information relating to all the suspicious deaths and gang related disappearances that were going on. (The Joker wasn't the only one who was frustrated his work wasn't being plastered on the front page, after all) Yet they had gone along with for the good of the city.

Now that the 'explosion' had begun, the media had broken off of the leash. Of course, they were all shocked and appalled that this was going on in their home city, but come on-- it was the biggest domestic violence story since the Rodney King riots in LA. Carnage and death sell papers, and the members of the news media were not about to let a story this big get away - not when it was right in front of them-- even if it was the death throes of Gotham.

So with the coming of dawn, all of the major media outlets in Gotham began to broadcast the amount of bloodshed that had been going on in Gotham for the world to hear. Phrases like 'dozens dead', "corpses of prominent crime lords' and 'police helpless' were used over and over with no restraint. Strangely, the word 'vampire' never came up-- neither did 'gangs on PCP's'' The jackals of the media didn't care about whatever it was that was really causing the chaos, only the end results and what those results did for their advertising revenues.

An hour after the first broadcast hit the airwaves, a chopper from CNN showed up in the city. Following it were representatives of all the major national networks (television and radio), and almost half of the newspapers on the east coast.

By noon, it seemed like the count of journalists on the streets of Gotham was higher than the number of corpses relating to the story that brought them. They kept using different cities as metaphors-- Phnom Penh, Saigon, Baghdad, Sarajevo, Johannesburg (one particularly inventive reporter had called it 'London after the Blitz'), all of which essentially amounted to the same thing-- the city was finished.

The press they were getting was bad enough, but the ripple effect were having a more dangerous ripple effect, as Barbara saw when watching one of the hourly reports from Fox News.

"Behind me the morgue attendants of Gotham are, as they have been since early this morning, removing bodies from the streets of the city... " The gray-haired reporter, known for his career as a correspondent in Africa, walked around what was the one of the main streets of Gotham. "More than fourteen hours in to what can only be described as a city-wide gang war, still no one is prepared to say how many have died in the gunfire and explosions that have been rocking Gotham since the New Year began."

"But the number of dead is the least of the concerns facing the city as the day has progressed. While there have been no battles in the street, reports of individual murders-- most of them known underworld figures-- have proliferated since dawn. Unofficially, reports have come in that the heads of all of the major syndicates, including the Maronis and the Falcones, are either dead or missing. "

"I say 'unofficially' because no one in the law enforcement community of Gotham seems willing to discuss what is happening in the city. Gotham has had a bloody history, and it was only recently that the United States lifted its orders declaring Gotham a national disaster area, cutting it off from the rest of the country for almost a year—a time where it was known only as 'No Man's Land'. "

The reporter cleared his throat, and continued. "All of these past horrors, however, pale in comparison to what has taken place today today. It is rumored half the District Attorneys in Gotham have gone into hiding, that Commissioner James Gordon has had a nervous breakdown from the strain of dealing with the situation, and that the Mayor and Governor are in a pitched debate whether or not to once again declare a state of emergency for Gotham City."

"Because of this, no one is answering or even attempting to answer the underlying questions. What started the chaos? Who or what is behind this horror? Has the carnage stopped or are all the relevant parties just taking the day off to lick their wounds? And, above all, where is the Batman when we once again need him more than ever?"

(Barbara cringed as she heard this question.)

"This last may be an unfair question to raise, as it has been verified by reliable sources that the so-called Caped Crusader has been busy throughout the night trying desperately to put a stop to the bloodshed. However, when given the report of the damages to this city, it is clear that for what may be the first time in his career, at least to myself, that the Batman has failed."

("He has not, asshole!" yelled Tim Drake. Faith put her hand on the young boy's wrist-- but she did not refute the charge.)

"For months Gotham City has been plagued by numerous gang related deaths and a mysterious string of 'blood-letting' murders, indicating that events in the city have been spiraling out of control. It is clear, now, that these were mere symptoms of a larger problem, one that the police, despite frantic reports to the contrary, could not control. And if the protector of Gotham is helpless to stop the violence, what hope do other conventional forces have?"

"This question has plagued the citizenry, and since early this morning, many of the citizens of Gotham have been leaving the city in dribs and drabs. Some of them have lived here all their lives, some have nowhere to go, but all that matters to them is that they no longer consider their homes safe."

A moment afterward, the camera cut from the reporter to a man in street clothes. Standing next to him were two young boys that looked as if they were barely out of kindergarten. "All my friends, my job, my life are in this city…" the man said in a shaky voice, "…but I can't stay here. We live in the middle of town, but I could hear the screams all the way from our apartment." He looked at his children. "I've lost my wife…" He paused, swallowing, once again looking at his sons. "…I can't lose my kids too."

The camera shifted back to the reporter after that. "I have traveled to many countries in my career in a journalist, and I have heard that story or a variation of it, at least a thousand times from hundreds of refugees. But I never expected to hear it on American soil, let alone in one of the most prosperous cities in the nation." For a moment a look of genuine pain appeared on the reporter's face. "Yet even this is not the saddest part of the story I have to tell you today."

("That's right, pile it on," Andrew said bitterly. "The mood's not grim enough?")

"Throughout the city the poor, the homeless, the infirm, all those people who have no assets of their own and no way to depart, have been going through their own version of hell."

The camera then cut to an old man who was suffering from some kind of tremor. "They've been killing my friends for weeks."

"Who has, sir?" asked the reporter.

The old man shook his head. "No idea. None of us know. All I know is that there are less of us everyday."

"Have the police investigated?"

For a moment the homeless man turned bitter. "They could give a damn…" Then it his face became resigned. "They couldn't bring 'em back anyway, even if they did help."

"And you're still on the street."

The old men spread his arms wide. "Where else we gonna go, pal?"

"The ugly truth of the matter is that hundreds of thousands of transients are murdered every year," The camera cut back to the reporter as he spoke. "But in Gotham City, the murder rate of homeless people has increased sevenfold over the past four months. What is more, there is every sign that this vicious killing spree will continue. Of the confirmed one hundred and five people who died last night, more than a third were homeless. No one is sure why they are still being targeted, and no one can explain how they were killed-- only that they suffered severe blood loss due to neck ruptures."

At this Dick looked at everyone incredulously. "Christ, these media people are thick." He snarled, voice rising as he glared at the reporter on the television. "How many hints does it take before you see vampires?"

Andrew fixed Dick with an unbelieving look of his own. "You want the media to be _more_ accurate with what's going on?"

"Well, no but-- I mean-- well?" Dick trailed off, uncertain.

"The media is the least of our problems right now," Barbara said as she turned off the television.

"On the contrary… I'd say the media is a _huge_ problem."

"Why, Spike?" said Dick exasperatedly. "They have no idea what the hell's going on in the city."

"Maybe not, but they're spreading the word that Gotham's falling apart, m'boy," Spike held up his hand to stave off any objections "I don't care if we're still holding it together; it LOOKS like the city's in turmoil and that nobody's in charge anymore. All you need now is a fire in the Reichstag and the people in this town'll welcome anybody who looks like he can stop the problem for 'em."

There was silence as the others in the room digested what Spike had just said. "Gotham is not '30's Berlin," Dick said finally, taking a deep breath.

Spike fixed him with a look. "Suit yourself, mate. I was there and I'm betting Prince Nick was too. I can recognize terror in the streets, and the people in Gotham are scared shitless."

There was a long silence as everyone in the room considered what had been said. Barbara wanted to say that Spike was wrong. She knew Dick and Tim well enough to know they wanted to say the same. This time, though, it would be a lie. Gotham City had been through some absolutely horrific times in its history but never-- not even during the year of No Man's Land-- had it been so close to its total, final destruction.

When Spike and Dick had come back to the clock tower and demanded what Spike had only half in jest referred to as 'the White Knights of the Dark City', Barbara knew that the news was going to be grim. The well-placed connections on the street that she had painstakingly assembled over the past few years appeared to have been wiped out in the space of a single day. Several were among the dead, others had disappeared and their fates were unknown. Barbara hoped that they were still alive, but she was enough of a realist to know that given their positions and the violence on the street, they were probably dead-- or worse.

Still, Barbara supposed _she_ was safe-- until she remembered that more than one of her people on the street knew who Oracle was and where to find her. She had avoiding dealing with the problem by not thinking about it. There was little she could do, and beside that, there were far more serious issues-- things she _could_ help solve.

Then they had started taking stock about Gotham-- and the immensity of what was happening finally came into focus.

To begin with, there were the immediate dead. The news had undercounted - there weren't a hundred and five; there were two hundred and nine. Only fifty-eight of those had been criminals of any kind.

Barbara was ashamed that she considered the life of a Falcone soldier to have less value than that of a high school senior, but the 'war on crime' in Gotham had gotten much more brutal, and soldiers were going to die, no matter what was done. The uninvolved were on the sidelines - their deaths were collateral damage - something to be avoided at any and all costs.

Until last night, their opponents had been quietly taking civilians down, one at a time, and as inconspicuously as possible. As the New Year approached, however, Nicholae's troops had dropped any pretense of tact. People were dying now in numbers she might have once (before her first encounters with the Joker) found unthinkable. People were dying everywhere - her associates had come across corpses in restaurants, at libraries, at nightclubs.

The grimmest find had occurred when Tim had encountered a cross-town bus, in which the driver and all ten passengers had been slaughtered. The only reason the media hadn't seized on to the image was that Tim had found the bys before the overextended police force had (and done his best to keep it out of the direct line-of-sight), though the press would probably find out about it when they got a few moments free to explore.

There wasn't a single one of them who was willing to estimate how many people had disappeared because no one -- not even the Sunnydale contingent-- was willing to guess just how many people had been eaten alive, turned or had just started to make a (desperate) run for safety. There might be a hundred people missing; there could be a thousand. Someone would have to do a head count and right now, everyone who could do it reliably had a full dance card.

Then there were the casualties in the Gotham underworld. In a very grim and scientific way, Barbara was amazed by the power of Nicholae's army; they had managed to do more damage to the crime syndicates of Gotham then her father and Bruce had done in a year or more. Usually, when a major chief fell among the mob, there was a struggle to seize the reins left hanging. In this case, however, holding on to those reins was more difficult than usual, and right now a healthy portion of the Gotham mob didn't want to be anywhere near the head of a family. Several-- the smarter ones—had gotten out of Gotham altogether, which did nothing to abate the chaos. If anything, it made things worse.

As far as anyone knew, in the crime families or without, twenty-seven major players in the Five Families of Gotham were dead. Only the Maroni's had anything resembling a skeleton of an organization left; all of the other families were pretty much gone. In addition, the Thorne syndicate had been obliterated. Rupert Thorne himself was seen getting thrown off of his fourth story mansion balcony, and all of his lieutenants had met their own gruesome fates.

Right now, there was still no real organization remaining among the men who were left. However, Barbara had heard that the remains of the Napoli and Gianelli's-- two families that until now had gotten along as well as the Hatfields and the McCoys-- had formed an alliance and were working together under the leadership of a previously low-level thug named Jimmy Eisenberg. No one knew who Eisenberg really was, but Barbara had connected him to Robson, one of Nicholae's lieutenants. She didn't like the implication.

Both she and Batman were certain that the alliance was at least a part of how Nicholae planned to take control of the remnants of the Gotham Families; get the scattered survivors of the war to swear loyalty to him in the chaos left behind by the horrific bloodshed. Some of her associates found it hard to believe that anyone _alive_ would swear loyalty to a vampire. The rest of them knew better-- criminals would do whatever they felt was necessary to protect themselves.

But, despite all of these difficulties, they still had gotten nowhere on what was ultimately the real issue-- locating the Prince. For all the effort they had put into it, they were no closer to finding him then they had been three days ago. All of the buildings that the group knew were under the control of the 'darkness' (including the ones where Spike and Dick had taken orders in their undercover work) had not turned up even a hint of where Nicholae was. Everyone they had captured, interrogated, and (in most cases) tortured continued to maintain that they had no idea where his Excellency was hiding. Spike had been inclined to believe them, after considerable effort (on his part) to extract information otherwise from them.

"This ponce has managed to protect himself so well that I'm betting maybe three high-class blokes know where he's hid," Spike had said. "And I'm pretty sure Kotaski is one. We find him, we find the puppet master." Unfortunately, they hadn't been able to locate anyone with a bead on the Carpathian. Not yet.

Which led to their most serious problem -- and it was one that none of them were sure how to handle.

The problem of Batman.

Barbara and Dick had seen Bruce through some pretty bleak times, from his brush with death, the battle with the System-inspired Bat that Azrael had tried to fill his cape with, and his struggles to keep the city safe and intact when the government had cast it aside for naught. Through it all, they had understood (as well as any of them could know) Bruce's psyche and his methodology. But now, something was wrong … something was very wrong.

Batman was the original lone wolf and he had always been extremely reluctant to take advice from anyone (nothing unusual, to those who knew him well), much less from a century-old vampire and a Slayer with a couple of murders on her file. The Bat had kept them at arms length for the past six weeks with no stated explanation.

However, now, they _needed _to come together—but it was clear even to the casual observer that Bruce didn't trust and wasn't going to follow the advice of the Sunnydale contingent -- no matter how important that advice might be to the success of his efforts.

For starters, he had kept them completely in the dark as to who he really was. This wasn't a huge surprise to any of the others -- he only revealed his identity under the direst of circumstances.

Spike and Faith had considered that they had arrived at that point-- Nicholae was going to come looking for _him _soon enough. Still, Batman had kept his face hidden and refused any further discussion of the matter. And even though the tower was becoming crowded, he had mentioned nothing about moving to the Batcave where they could get a broader view of the city and rearm themselves more thoroughly.

Also, there was the fact that the worse the situation in Gotham had become, the quieter Batman had been becoming. He had made fewer communications to Barbara and Tim as the crisis worsened, and those had been shorter.

This was also according to Batman's pattern; he got more upset the closer his city came to ruin. Right now, however, they couldn't get him to share his plans as to what he was going to do to save Gotham. For that matter, in this meeting he had said little - the closest he had come, in fact, was pacing the length of the room like a caged tiger.

The pacing was very odd, to Barbara. Bruce had a habit of remaining very still when he was thinking, no matter the situation. He seemed more nervous, more on edge than she had seen him, even during No Man's Land. It would be understandable for any of _them_ to be acting that way, given the circumstances, but for Batman…

… it was unheard of.

"You want to get Nicholae to show his face, I can think of one thing that'll guarantee his surfacing."

Spike had sounded entire too cheerful when he had made that remark. Nevertheless, at this point they couldn't dismiss any suggestion that was made. "How?" asked Barbara.

"The guy has made it pretty clear that he wants to see the Bat. I say you send out a message saying that you want a face to face with 'im," Spike put his hand on the table. "Say that you want to have some kind of summit about who gets what in Gotham."

"And you think that Nicholae will go for something like that?" asked Dick incredulously. His eyes were red around the edges from stress and lack of sleep. His concern about Bruce wasn't helping, either, as Barbara knew only too well.

Spike snorted. "He might, he might not. But just by making the offer, you force him to make some kind of movement. Might be a way to flush him out."

"You really think that after all the maneuvering that this guy's done to get where he is, he's just gonna pop out his head and shake hands because we ask him to?" Barbara tried to sound more even-handed than Dick, but she was as appalled by the suggestion as he was.

"You never know," said Spike thoughtfully. "I've seen a lot of Big Bads who really are that stupidly arrogant, in the end."

Her voice was incredulous. "You honestly think Nicholae's like that? After all he's done you think he's that stupid."

"I don't know. Right now I know more about Nicholae's plans than I do about the Man in Black."

"What do you mean?"

Everybody turned at that. It was the first time Batman had spoken in at least thirty minutes. From his tone, he sounded a little more wound up than was his norm. Spike either didn't hear it, or, more likely, heard but chose to ignore it.

"I mean that we're getting right down to where the cheese binds, oh shrouded one, and you are playing whatever grand strategy you have remarkably close to the vest," Spike's tone was sarcastic.

"Spike," Faith, the only one of them who would directly challenge the punk, gently put her hand on his shoulder. "This isn't the time to start going negative."

"No, actually I think this is exactly the time to raise the issue," he said, glancing at Faith, then at Batman. "The guy's already demonstrated how well he can do the old blitzkrieg and things are only going to be getting uglier when the sun sets in…" he paused, looking at his watch "…three hours. We can beat this guy but only if you let us in on the game."

Batman seemed to consider this. "And you believe the best way to bring Nicholae out of hiding is by operating from a position of weakness?" he said slowly. "If I should even suggest this, he'll think that I'm operating from a position of weakness and attempt to take advantage of it."

"In his mind, you already are," Spike said gently.

Batman pretended that he hadn't heard Spike, and continued. "In any case, it's a moot point; I _do not_ negotiate with evil," His voice was hard, tone flat, and it was clear he would allow no argument. "Not now… not _ever_."

There was an awkward silence. Faith spoke next. "_I _don't? This is no longer an 'I' kind of situation, anymore."

"She's right." said Dick. "We have to operate as a group. Otherwise, we stand no chance of beating him."

There was another long pause. "This is _my_ city." Batman said again. "And I am _not_ going to give this monster any more control than he has already."

"Um… Look out the window," Spike said sardonically. "Nicholae _has_ control over the city. He's wrecked the Five families, he's driven out the minor crime syndicates, and he's beaten up all the supervillains. He can disappear into the shadows now and he'd still control Gotham's underworld," Spike looked straight in to Batman's eyes, as best he could within the cowl the Caped Crusader wore. "Even if you beat him, _your_ city's going to be _years_ getting over the damage that he did in _just one night_."

Everything that Spike had said was true. Cold hard facts had always been vital to Batman… and that more than anything else made his next reaction even more out of character.

"This city is not under Nicholae's control. And as long as I am drawing breath, it never will be." Bruce's voice was getting a bit loud as he finished speaking.

"And how long," said Faith gently "do you think that will be?"

Batman's reaction to this was lost in Dick's whirling around at Faith. "Why the hell are you talking like that?" he said angrily.

Barbara had expected that Faith was going to turn on Dick and then there would be the fun of a free-for-all erupting… instead, Faith became pensive.

"Because that's the way life is when you're fighting vampires and you try to run the whole show by yourself," Faith turned back to Batman. "I've seen it happen more than once. Eventually, despite everything that's in you, you hit the wall. And the second that happens…." Faith trailed off, but all of them knew what she had been saying.

For a long moment, Bruce was silent. While that moment lasted, Barbara had become dangerously afraid. She wasn't sure of what-- that Batman was folding in on himself when they needed him to be more outgoing, that he was seriously considering the truth of Faith's words, or if, like her father, he was just considering giving up. All she knew was that Bruce had been hesitating a lot in his choices lately, and she was afraid that he'd become so unsure of himself that he would stop completely.

Finally, though, he spoke. "What do you suggest we do?" Batman asked calmly.

Faith sighed with relief. "First, we take things in order. We can't stop Nicholae, at least right now, because we don't know where he is." She took a long breath, and continued. "And we can't find out where he is unless we find Kotaski. We have to bring Kotaski out, and the only way that we can do that is if we can throw a serious monkey wrench into this well-oiled machine they've been working on for four months."

"We know all that," said Tim patiently. "But we don't have a way we can do it."

"Maybe we do…" Faith reached into her pants pocket and pulled out a flask of blue powder. "This is a magical powder that some of my friends in LA concocted after six months of research. It's made up primarily of root-based plants such as leeks and garlic."

Bruce silently watched Faith, listening to her explanation, but the others had their own reactions. Nightwing spoke first.

"So apart from making vegetable soup when we add water, how does that help us in this situation?" asked Dick somewhat sardonically

"On a human being, it does nothing. But on a vampire," Faith gave a mysterious smile "it has two uses. It turns the vampire's skin blue, marking it the same way a dye-pack does stolen money."

Nightwing nodded his head slightly, now listening as intently as Batman, curious as to what else the powder might be capable of. He had learned during his time with Bruce that there were some remarkable substances ready for use in the world, if you were willing to make the effort and find them.

"Well, that makes finding them easier," admitted Tim, "but how does knowing how many killers there are help us stop them?"

"That's the second thing it does." said Faith. "It has the same effect as a pesticide. It won't kill a vamp, but it will be a lot harder for them to put up a fight," She flashed her smile at Spike. "Want to try it on for size?"

"Bloody hell, don't even joke about that!" Spike recoiled.

"There must be somewhere between three or four hundred of Nicholae's troops in the city by now," said Batman, implying that a more accurate figure could not be had, on his present information. He turned to Faith. "Can you get enough of the powder for it to be useful to us?"

"And even if you can, how do we make sure the vamps get it?" added Barbara

Faith looked at Andrew. "That's where you people come in," the young nerd said. "I have a cunning plan that just might stop the madness and the enemy." He smiled. "Thank you, V: The Final Battle"

Everyone looked at Andrew in total ignorance. "Excuse me?" said Dick finally.

"Come here, I'll explain."


	22. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Only a small percentage of the evil that was now in control of much of Gotham's underworld paid attention to the media coverage the city was receiving. Their apparent indifference had nothing to do with a lack of interest in the world's reaction to the terrible slaughter they were delivering to the city. It was that they, like the crime-fighters of Gotham, needed to regroup and decide out how to proceed next. Even though they were limited in where they could be in Gotham, there were certain things that had to be done before they could proceed any further.

There were problems in their chain of command. Nicholae had not shown his face in Gotham last night but his captains-- including Kotaski and the Scarecrow-- had been keeping him completely appraised of what was going on in the city. The problem was simple, and annoying. Batman, Spike and their associates had not managed to kill any of the consigliore, but they had done a pretty good job of getting rid of the 'middle management'. Thor had not been the only lieutenant that met an explosive end during the night.

As a result of that, a series of 'battlefield promotions' had taken place over the course of the day, but it had still taken them some time to determine who was reporting to whom.

Then there had come the problems of the gang members who had been turned during the last night. Most of the 'new breed' had been thrilled to learn that they were now 'damn near immortal' and 'indestructible'. Several were also happy that the men they had reported to while they were alive were no longer in the picture. They had been as happy as little children… but the 'problem' had made itself clear only a short time later.

The reaction of the 'new breed' when they discovered who they were taking orders from had not been positive. Between the arrogance that most of them had possessed during life (made greater now by their newly discovered 'abilities') and the hostility they bore some of their comrades who had now turned undead, there were a _lot _of fights taking place. In fact, had Batman and Co. known of the infighting that was going on, they might have taken advantage of the situation to retake the city. As it was, nearly a fifth of the troops sired had been dusted before order had been restored.

Finally, there had been the more than the requisite amount of maneuvering in order to seize control of the criminal underworlds that were now in chaos. Nicholae knew that there was no way they would immediately control the various syndicates of Gotham-- Rome was not built in a day, after all-- but several of his associates were far more ambitious than he was in this situation. This, too, led to a certain amount of bloodshed between the various vampires.

So, while the media had been arriving en-masse reporting the chaos and violence that had befallen Gotham City on New Year's Day, they were missing a significant amount of far more insidious and serious behind-the-scenes maneuvering. By nightfall, half of the Gotham syndicates were now completely in the hands of the undead.

Furthermore, many of the remaining criminals that had survived the New Years slaughter and the purge of the next day had, like many civilians, fled the city for parts unknown. A majority of the members of the rest of Gotham's criminal organizations (not under Nicholae's control) were in hiding, scrambling to come up with a plan to protect themselves from the new enemy they now faced. Most of those, however, were not as intelligent as those who had died, and none of Nicholae's troops considered them to really be a threat. They would still be dealt with, of course, and several of the newly turned would descend upon their former associates that night… in short, phase one had succeeded.

Since they had managed to ring out the old in the first, the next phase would be, naturally, for them to ring in the new. To that end, the arrival of the media had been a big boost to Nicholae's plan. Much of the country now knew something rotten was going on in Gotham City, and today they would see it live.

Until yesterday, all of Nicholae's troops had been following a specific instruction from Nicholae himself: the number of civilians attacked (and fed on) was to be kept small, and any attacks that took place were to be undertaken out-of-sight of the public eye_._ His Excellency had made it clear that he wanted as little attention drawn to the situation as could be managed. The rest of the world knew something bad was happening in Gotham, and now it was time to reveal how serious and committed the enemy facing them was.

Robson, like half of the lieutenants in Nicholae's organization, wasn't wild about the plan in general. Having lived in the States his entire un-life, he always believed the Americans under Nicholae's command were a lot stronger and more adaptable than many of the higher-ups (most of whom were old-school Europeans) who followed Nicholae. As well, he did not believe that the citizens in Gotham were going to meekly submit when faced with the horror that now confronted them.

Yes, many of the citizens of Gotham had fled after the previous night's attacks, but many more had stayed. A quarter of the homeless population had been eaten, and the homeless still weren't deserting the streets or their friends. Perhaps it was simply that they were incredibly naïve or foolhardy about what they were facing, but Robson didn't think that was the case for all of them. Experience had taught him that even the meekest American would fight when driven into a corner. He also believed that there was going to be a _lot _of guerilla style warfare in the next stage of the plan, and though he knew that they would ultimately win, if the cameras got one picture of a man nobly fighting a vampire it would galvanize the entire population of Gotham.

There had been several unsettling signs during the night. When Robson had heard Commissioner Gordon had been hospitalized, he, like almost everyone else in Gotham (human and vampire), had thought that had meant the Gotham police had been neutralized. This was quickly proven not to be the case. Despite that there had been chaos in the streets from midnight unto dawn, despite the fact that they had been spread about as densely as they possibly could, the Gotham City police hadn't surrendered.

What was more, almost overnight, it appeared that they had come equipped to fight the undead. The police had been involved in several skirmishes, and while several officers were killed, several more had managed to fight their opponents to a draw or better. Utilizing equipment that had to have been special issue-- super-soaker water guns filled with holy water, billy-clubs with theirs ends shaven to a point-- they had fought messily, but effectively.

Combined with the damage that Batman and his troops had brought to the ranks of the vampires they had suffered many more casualties than even die-hards like Kotaski had predicted. Robson had no way of knowing that a special brigade of police officers had been trained jointly by Faith and Oracle on how to fight the undead or that they had been armed by a branch of WayneTech. All he and Nicholae's other officers knew was that the Gotham City PD had not been the easy prey that they had predicted it would be, initially.

And of course, there had been events that night that Nicholae wasn't dealing with. His entire approach to Spike had been one that Kotaski hadn't been able to trust. Robson had known about Spike's reputation from the previous century. He also had heard a few stories over the last few years that had convinced him, and more than a few of the rank-and-file, that Spike was _not_ to be trusted. Even everything Spike had supposedly done for them over the past few weeks did nothing to build up Robson's confidence. However, Robson had been overruled by Kotaski, who had made it very clear that his Excellency 'had important plans for him' (Spike).

Robson, therefore, had not been surprised when the situation literally blew up in their faces last night, but he wasn't happy about it, either. Losing Thor and Wallace —both of whom had been very valuable to him over the last few months—didn't improve his mood, either. Now the punk was loose on the city and he was going to be an extraordinary pain in the ass to bring down. The one supposed bonus that Robson had hoped to obtain-- the identity of the Batman-- was presumably false. Not that Robson would have known-- Kotaski had refused to reveal it to anyone below the rank of captain, another reason that the Carpathian had so hugely pissed him off.

So, despite the fact that three-quarters of Gotham's criminal empire was now either destroyed or in their hands, that all of the major supervillains were no longer a factor, and that the news was effectively broadcasting the city was a war zone, Robson still felt dissatisfied as he looked over Gotham from his balcony. Admittedly, he was in a minority among Nicholae's troops and it was possible that he was seeing shadows where there were none. Then again, he had been in the shadows himself for most of his (un)life, so there was a good chance he knew what he was talking about.

Perhaps his concerns would have been less disturbing if he had just seen Nicholae at one of the bases they had established. Supposedly the time for secrecy had passed, and he could now appear on the street, even he still did not reveal his home base. All Robson had gotten, however, was a telephone call from his Excellency telling him that it was time to begin the second phase. Even then he might have raised some objections, but the voice on the other end exuded a tone that would brook no disagreement.

So Robson had given the order to seven of his soldiers: get out on the street and start making a scene. A scene made as violent and bloody as possible, under the circumstances. Not surprisingly, he had little trouble finding volunteers -- his men had been on the leash for so long that they gladly welcomed a chance to raise hell. What bothered him about his Excellency's order was that Robson had learned that he had given the same order to every lieutenant within an hour.

So the inevitable had happened. By eleven p.m. there were at least forty (likely closer to sixty) vampires out on the street, breaking shop windows, smashing up cars and killing people, when they could. And, as Nicholae had planned, every major television network in the area had footage of the rampage. By midnight, the entire nation knew that Gotham was under siege.

Robson had expected to be delighted by this, but for some reason, as he had watched the news, he still felt unsatisfied. The prize that they had sought was won. Why couldn't he revel in it?

His mind came back, unwillingly, to the obvious problems that waited to be dealt with. For one, compared to the night past, there were far fewer fatalities. Why? He realized they had almost been too successful yesterday. The citizens of Gotham had been using the streets less and less as Nicholae's grip on the city had tightened.

After New Year's Day and the film footage, almost no one was on the street after dark. Even the homeless were nowhere to be found. The television crews were filming, but none of the reporters or photojournalists was (or ever would be) brave enough to risk their own lives, recording was, therefore, being done in secure locations.

And, because of the rule against vampires entering a house without an invitation, they could not carry out their destruction in the homes of Gotham City. So, for all the devastation so far, there were less than a dozen people dead. Also, as even a novice like him knew, dead bodies made far better imagery than the destruction of property.

Secondly, there was the obstinate blindness of the reporters involved. Robson just wasn't sure how many people in Gotham _knew _that there were actual vampires in the city. The homeless population did, of course, and much of the Gotham PD knew as well. So did the contingent of vampire hunters in the city.

The rest of Gotham, however? Perhaps they thought this was merely an extreme of urban decay, an acceleration of the crime that existed in other large cities in their own. Maybe they were going through the extreme denial that most people went through when confronted with the supernatural. Whatever it was, the people of Gotham were keeping it do themselves—in all the interviews that had been on television, no one questioned (or asking the questions) had said the word _vampire._

So it was that because the people weren't saying the word, the media wasn't, either. How they could avoid using it after seeing countless numbers of Nicholae's troops with their other faces on was another mystery that Robson didn't think he'd ever be able to figure out… but it was still happening. One person being drained of blood in front of a camera would have done it, but somehow none of the media had been lucky enough to get a money shot.

In other words, Gotham City was a war zone… but nobody knew who the enemy was. In the media's eyes, that was enough. As far as Nicholae's plan went, however, it might not be sufficient.

What concerned Robson most was that at the moment there were more vampires on the street then people at the moment. It was a golden opportunity for the Slayer or for the Bat-- but neither was taking advantage of it. Nightwing and Robin had both been seen on the street killing a few random soldiers each, but the fighting had been sporadic and not focused. Of the greater threats, neither hide nor hair had been seen. Robson knew the patterns of both well enough that the disappearing act had to be deliberate, and there was some kind of larger plan at work on their part. What they were planning he didn't know, but he instinctively knew that it would not end well.

With a groan, Robson turned off the television that he had half-heartedly been paying attention to. There was no new news, and he was no longer certain whether that was bad or good.

He knew that he should probably check the progress of the remainder of his men in their efforts to assume control of the Thorne syndicate. There had been no immediate changes in the past six hours, and Robson suspected that there would be none now, but he knew that he had to be thorough. Nicholae demanded no less.

He had just taken out his cellphone when it began to ring. _No surprises there, _he thought to himself. _Probably that asshole Carpathian come to tell me I'm behind schedule…_

Except it wasn't the Carpathian. It was Stevenson, a mid-level grunt. "He's up to something," Stevenson said with no preamble.

"Which _he_ are you talking about?" Robson said wearily.

"You know damn well who I'm talking about." Stevenson was never this impolite normally; something had his blood up. "It's that caped freak."

"What's he doing that's got your panties in a twist?"

"That's just it… He ain't doing a thing."

Robson sighed wearily. Some hoodlums-- dead or alive-- could be like puppies sometimes; you had to lead them by the nose. "Stevenson, time is money. Start making sense."

"Alright. That BatPlane he's got. He's circling the city."

"That all he's doing?"

Pause. "Yeah."

"Then I don't see why you called me to tell me something I could have found out if I looked out the window."

"You don't get it." Stevenson paused. "He's making noise."

Robson shook his head. Stevenson had been in Gotham City longer than he had (for that matter Stevenson had been around the city longer then most of Nicholae's troops) and thought that, by extension, he was more keyed in to the methods of Batman than most of the others. This was, of course, a mere illusion but he kept it up anyway. "Alright. Why does the fact that he's making noise….?"

"The Batplane has some of the most advanced technology anybody here has ever seen. I'm pretty sure it has stealth capability, and I know for damn sure it can run silently." Stevenson paused. "The only reason that it makes a sound is if he _wants_ it to make a sound."

Robson was about to object when he realized that was a valid point. "Okay, I'll bite: why does he want us to hear him?"

"Don't know, but whatever it is, it can't be for a good reason."

_Thank you, Captain Obvious, _Robson nearly said, but he held it back. Getting snarky was much less inviting than it had been before. "Is he doing anything else with his big black plane?" he asked instead.

"Right now I can't tell, but I doubt he'd just be joyriding--"

Mid-sentence Stevenson cut off. Robson frowned. "Stevenson, you alright?"

Robson could hear him hesitating for a moment. "I don't know," he said slowly. I…I just—something got in my eye for a minute."

"Well, blink it out." Robson said impatiently.

"I'm trying; it's just—" Suddenly, his voice turned jagged. "What-- oh-- ahh-- oh-- my chest, my chest."

To say that this gave Robson the creeps was a severe understatement. "Stevenson, what's the fuck is going on?"

"Don't—know-- my skin's-- burning-- my-- chest-- is—- on fire-- What-- what-- the-- hell--"

Stevenson's voice cut out. "What's happening? " There was no response. "Goddamn you, Stevenson, pick up!!"

Robson's phone chose that minute start beeping, alerting him to another call on the line. He had an intuition that it was going to be related to Stevenson's.

"What the hell is happening!?" said the voice without preamble. The voice was so choked up that it took him a moment to place it-- Vazquez, one of the Latino gang members who'd been turned to give Nicholae an in with the Hispanics.

Robson tried to remain calm even though he had a sinking feeling in his gut, now." What makes you think that _I_ know anything about what's going on…?"

"Don't fuck around with me, _gringo…_" It was hard to tell which was more prevalent in Vazquez's tone, anger or pain. "You and his Excellency have been running this town, and somehow you don't know about the poison in the sky…"

Robson was not brilliant, but he could put two and two together as well as anyone else. "Be smart, Vazquez. Nicholae put a lot of time and effort in to this project; you think he's going to junk it all now that's he about to win?"

"First rule of guys coming out on top, you get rid of the stiffs that got you there."

Suddenly Robson was glad he had gotten this call; calming down Vazquez would be an excellent way to keep his mind off the shit that seemed, literally, to be coming down from on high. "Well, I'm sure all your years of experience have served you well, Ernesto," he said sardonically. "I'm sure that someone who's been around as long as his Excellency, might have a better idea of what the fuck is going on far better than you would. Perhaps you'd like to share your feelings with Master Nicholae?" He paused a moment, letting the question sink in. "I believe I have him on speed-dial."

There was a long pause as the Latino considered what he had been told. Finally, however, Vazquez spoke. "It's that damn Bat, isn't it?"

"What exactly is happening, Ernesto?" Robson tried not to sound as if he didn't see everything they had worked on being shredded.

"Something in the wind. We thought it was some kind of snowfall. Then Chico started turning blue and gagging. Next thing, you know same thing's happening to _everybody_ on the street. Some of them just collapsed." Vazquez was suddenly seized with an audible paroxysm of coughing. "I guess I must-- have-- got some of it-- in me--"

White powder in the air… The Batplane circling the city… _Oh shit_. "Vazquez, are we dying?" More coughing. "Goddamnit, Vazquez, are we dying?!"

"Not yet," the Latino managed, "…but we're pretty close."

Robson abruptly hung up. _"Fuck!"_ was all he could say. For a long moment the only thought that went through his head was, _This is why the Bat always wins._

He considered his options. Running was out, and not just because Nicholae would kill him if he did it. If the air really was full of whatever pesticide the Bat had worked up, there was no way he would be able to make it more than a few blocks before it got him. Staying here was an even worse idea, though-- all of his soldiers were out on the field, which left him open to any attack from Nightwing, the Slayer or whoever else was on the street by now.

That meant he had to find some place safe to regroup, and there was only one vampire who might be immune to Batman's aerial spraying.

He speed-dialed Kotaski.

Unknown to Robson, his building was being watched half a block away by a woman using a pair of high-speed binoculars. It was impressive technology, too. She'd seen better, of course-- Wolfram & Hart was light years ahead of the rest of the country as far as surveillance equipment went-- but Batman's equipment was clearly top of the line.

Once again, Faith pondered the identity of her reluctant colleague of the past months. Who was this man, and how did he have access to such wonderful toys? What great sin was _he_ trying to atone for? What wrong had happened in Gotham to make him protect the city the way he did? She couldn't begin to guess, and she had begun to think that Batman would never tell her.

She had tried not to take it personally-- a lot of people would have trouble confiding in a confessed murderer-- but it did bother Faith that she had revealed so many secrets and he had given _no_ hints as to any of his own. That was a shame, because, when you came right down to it, she and Batman weren't that different, as she saw it.

Her attention was drawn to movement down the fire escape. It could have been what she was waiting for… _Someone_ was on the move. A glance through her binoculars confirmed that Spike's information had been spot on-- it was Robson.

"Faith to Oracle, I have the target in sight." She paused as she watched him dart into a car. "He's getting in what appears to be a blue four-door Mercedes."

"Got it," said the voice in her ear. "Switching to satellite. We expect to have him on –screen... now."

The car pulled away. "Guy's heading east. Tell the man with the cape to get ready to move."

Oracle knew Faith well enough to not take the impertinence seriously. "He's preparing to track them. You ready to do your thing?"

A small smile emerged on Faith's face. "I'm ready to kick ass and chew bubble gum… and I am clean out of bubble gum."

"Nice to know you respect the classics," piped up Andrew.

"Hey, if it's good enough for Roddy, it's good enough for me."

"Could we discuss classic cinema later, maybe?" Oracle's tone was annoyed, now.

"Chill, brothers and sisters. I've got some business to take care of." Faith removed the stake-silver knife that she had made six months ago in L.A. "All right, I'm ready for my close-up."

She spotted a couple of figures on the horizon. She couldn't see their faces, but she could see two things—their skin was blue, and they were holding their sides in pain.

Beautiful.

"Lights, camera, action," said Faith as she got ready to move.


	23. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

At its most basic level, Spike understood how dire the situation in Gotham was, and knew that it had reached the point where drastic measures were called for. As someone who wasn't breathing, however, he found it somewhat underhanded and cruel for the forces of good to use what was tantamount to germ warfare.

And, on a purely selfish level, he was appalled that Batman and Faith were asking _him_ to go out on the street after the equivalent of vampiric 'Agent Orange' had been dumped on the streets of Gotham City.

His argument had been futile. For the first time since Batman and Faith had been working in concert, or so it seemed, they had stood as a united front.

"We need someone to take out Nicholae's street-level leaders," Faith had pointed out "…and you are the only one in Gotham who has a clear idea who they are and where they hang out. "

Spike looked at Faith, an eyebrow raised in mock surprise at what she was proposing. "And you and the Big Black Bat can't do this because…" Spike trailed off, waiting for her to complete the thought.

"Uh… we're going to be a little busy taking the fight to Kotaski and Nicholae," Faith had said. "We think there's a chance they'll put up a _little _bit of a fight."

For the briefest of instants, Spike had considered asking for a trade. Then reality had set in. "Why can't either of the batmen junior take…"

"Shhh!" Faith had cut him off. She had dropped her voice, whispering her response at him. "Don't you know how much Dick _hates_ being called another Batman?" After realizing that Spike had chosen the phrase for exactly that reason, she had continued speaking, ignoring him. "They can't do it because they're going to be busy mopping up whatever vampire leftovers are still on the street."

Spike was silent. He knew when he was in check.

"Look Spike, we've come a long way, and I'm not going to say that even if we win we'll be able to claim Gotham as a victory. But we may have just a chance," Faith looked at him with a penetrating honesty that Spike didn't normally associate with the Slayer. "If we don't hit _hard_ and hit _now, _Gotham may be lost…" The implication behind her statement was clear. "And I don't want to know what happens next."

Soul or not, Spike was a little curious as to what _would_ happen afterward. Even from the extreme outside it was clear that Nicholae had built a hell of an organization and that the roots were long and deep. You couldn't be a vampire and not admire the craftsmanship of what the Prince had set up. Gotham City was not an island, though, and there could be long-term ramifications beyond any of the Prince's plans. Spike chose to sigh. "The health insurance and hazard pay for this gig really suck."

Faith gave a small smile. "Yeah, they do. The hours are lousy, and no one notices what a good job you do, either."

And with that exchange Spike went once more out into the breach. He did not, however, go out without putting on his leather duster and some skintight gloves he had gotten from Barbara. When asked if he wanted a mask, he had said (well within the range of Tim and Dick's ears) "Traipse about in a bloody costume? What kind of pouf do you think I am?"

He then left via elevator, not even bothering to savor the expression he knew was on their faces. Now, however, he was beginning to wish he had stayed to see their reactions; Lord knew when he'd get another chance to revel in his own malice.

Spike walked cautiously along the street. He wasn't sure where the hell all the newsmen were filming from, but he didn't think it would help his plans for a sneak attack if one of Nicholae's captains saw him on Fox News. G ranted, there was also a chance he could have seen one of them on the telly as well, but right now, being covert ruled the night.

Eventually, he arrived in one of the major centers of traffic between Nicholae's men. It was closer to the middle-class section of Gotham than he had expected a base of covert operations to be. It was a long way from operating out of a semi-slum in the poorest section of town, and Spike wondered how they had managed to get away with doing it. Had they killed and turned a high-level real-estate shark? Or had they merely bribed one? He wasn't sure.

Well, maybe he'd ask one of Nicky's boys when he knocked on their door. Assuming, of course, any of them were still around. Spike was laying odds the place was empty. When faced with a well-planned strategy suddenly gone to hell, most mid-level flunkies-- human or otherwise-- would jump at the opportunity to get the fuck out of Dodge. Granted, his Excellency inspired more loyalty than say, Al Capone, but lackeys were lackeys, whoever it was holding their leash.

Furthermore, while most of Nicholae's men were stronger and smarter than the average, they would be as vulnerable to the poison as any other vampire. Spike had passed at least a score of fallen followers as he ran through the streets. You couldn't miss them now; they were blue-faced and flat on their backs. Spike had killed only half-- it wasn't fun when your prey couldn't put up a fight… and, besides that, he figured he'd leave _some_ of the work for the Batman.

He hadn't passed any familiar faces on his way to mid-town, either high rank or foot soldier. That kind of cheesed him off, as he'd been hoping to kill two birds with one stone. But, in a sense, it just proved one of his rules of living-- _high-level people never deign to soil their hands when 'things' are going to hell in a handbasket._

Of course, there was also the possibility that Nicholae had heard about what was going on, blamed the situation on some of his followers, and then slaughtered them. Unfortunately, Spike didn't think his luck would be that good, tonight… but he would find out shortly.

He opted to enter using the window. He had been invited into this building before, and he could just as easily have broken the door down. Tonight, though, he was being as subtle and invisible as possible until he had to break routine.

He gently pried the window open, looked to his left, then to his right, and then gingerly entered the room…

…Where a hulking vampire he had come to know as Brick was waiting.

"Guess being subtle's out for the evening." he muttered before he threw his first punch. Brick intercepted it before it got anywhere.

"Oh grea-- " Brick didn't give him the opportunity to finish the sentence, grabbing Spike by the forearm and flinging him in to the wall next to them. Spike got back to his feet as quickly as he could. He frowned, shaking his head to clear it. "I'm definitely getting to old for this shit."

He picked up what looked like the heaviest wooden chair he could see and nailed Brick in the back of the head. The strike sent Brick to his knees, Spike following him forward with a kick. It took Brick in the gut, knocking him backward off of his feet, and left him off-balance for long enough for Spike to snap off a chair leg and drive it in to his chest.

Poof! Brick was gone with the wind.

"Good help is so hard to find these days."

Spike turned to his left and snapped to attention in a hurry. He knew that voice; it belonged to Ivor, chief lieutenant of the Latinos. The man had a hell of a beer gut and wore a lot of gold chains, but his bad taste belied the fact that he was a very deadly customer. On either side of him were two very muscular looking flunkies he had smiled and nodded at over the past few days and several others Spike had never seen before. He didn't know whether they were lieutenants or foot soldiers, but they looked very formidable.

"Nevertheless…" Ivor said calmly, "Brick did his job well. He laid down his life for the cause."

Spike's eyebrows went up about as high as he thought that they could. "What is with you old style blokes and your penchant for crusades?" he said mock-seriously. "Guy forms a gang, they have a few meetings; all of a sudden you're all ready to start passing out the Kool-Aid and do a Jim Jones?"

"We're not suicidal, Spike," said Ivor huffily.

"Really. In case you haven't noticed, some of _your_ boys are out there turning into Smurfs, writhing in pain, and collapsing on the street to get staked and scooped up. And what are _your_ boys here doing? Running out on to the street to join the bloody parade."

"We're not all on the death march," said a vampire in a torn T-shirt. "In case you hadn't noticed there are a lot of us here." He walked up to Spike. "Enough to dust your sorry ass."

And without any further warning, three thugs leaped at him.

_Not again, _Spike thought as he prepared to do battle.

In a matter of seconds the situation had turned ugly. Once again, there was a man on either side of him, with another in his face. The only problem was that this time, he didn't have the benefit of either a companion or an electromagnetic pulse. Furthermore, he was an enclosed building, not in the fresh air. _Not exactly ideal conditions for victory,_ he thought.

With no better plan of attack in mind, he leapt at the thug on his right. Unfortunately, the second he moved, the hoodlum pulled a fragment of a lead pipe and socked him in the jaw.

For a few seconds, Spike saw stars. Before they had gone away, the second thug had kicked him in the back, knocking him down. Had Spike's reflexes not been as fast as they were, they would have dusted him right then and there. As it was, he was lucky that he managed to tuck his hand in under him, roll in a ball and jump back to his feet.

"Dirty pool, old man," Spike said as he tried not to make it obvious he was seeing four thugs instead of two. "I like it."

The first opponent--along with his identical twin-- ran at Spike. In a second, Spike guessed and bolted at the one who was starting to spin. He slammed in to the thug with a flying tackle, knocking the man backward in to the window Spike had just come in through himself earlier.

That might have been more effective at stopping Thug Number One if the fight hadn't been taking place on the ground floor. Spike had managed to buy himself a few seconds, at most.

Or at least that was what he thought until the thug began gagging and turning blue in the face.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Spike jerked a piece of the window frame open and leapt outside. He managed a vicious grin as he looked back at the thug. "Let me give you something to help with that cough, mate." The frame rammed into the thug's heart less than a moment later.

Spike's tendency towards action before thought had gotten him into trouble a lot of times. Unfortunately, it wasn't until the thug dissolved into dust that Spike realized how blindingly stupid he had been. In his rush to use the toxin to deal with the thug, he had jumped outside. The toxin was in the air outside, and it meant he'd put his own neck on the scaffold.

_I think I've just fucked myself,_ Spike thought. Then he remembered something. The toxin was not fatal in itself – there were very few poisons that were lethal to someone like him, and Andrew had assured him that this was not among them. It would hurt like a sonofabitch if it touched his skin, but it couldn't kill him… and he was in protective gear, so it couldn't touch him….

Hastily Spike pulled up the bandana that he had carried along to protect his face. It wasn't total protection, but it was about as good as it would get, for now.

When Spike turned around, he realized none of Nicholae's troops had jumped after him. On the heels of that insight came the codicil that at the moment, Nicholae's gang was more afraid of the toxin then it was of Nicholae.

After that realization, Spike began to piece together a plan that might enable him to beard the lions in their lair. Problem was, it would be messy, and it would cheese off the Bat something awful… He smirked. _Another reason to do it. _He took off, heading toward the dumpster he had seen behind the building.

Five minutes later, he was ready for action. He had found a bunch of oily rags in the dumpster along with a small glass bottle. It wasn't _exactly_ a Molotov cocktail, but in this case, it would be more than sufficient. He glanced at it for a moment. _Unless, of course, I've underestimated how flammable those rags are and it is explodes on me when I light it._

Spike sighed. Blokes like him weren't supposed to play with fire for _exactly_ that reason. There was way too much of a chance for self-immolation. But Spike had no choice; this was his plan, and he had to carry forward. He couldn't be sure how long their fear of the gas would outweigh their fear of Nicholae. Eventually, they were going to attack him, and he knew it.

So, after swallowing whatever nervousness he felt (and there was quite a lot) he took out his lighter. Holding the bottle as far away from his face as he could, he lit the edge of one of the rags and threw the makeshift firebomb through the window.

The result came almost immediately. It didn't matter whether you were alive or dead; the instinct to run from fire was as closed to inbred as any other primitive impulse. Nicholae's men came racing out the window and door as the firebomb began eating the furniture.

Once they were outside, a lieutenant Spike recognized as Calvin began to direct some of the other gangsters to start looking for him. "I want that motherfucker's head on a plate!" he spat. "Now!" Apparently Calvin was so infuriated at what was happening that he'd left all logic and sense back in the house.

He would not, however, get a chance to correct his error, because a scant few seconds later a bad situation got far worse. A great many of his troops began gagging, coughing and turning blue. A few saw what was happening and ran. They did not get much further. In less than three minutes, almost every (former) occupant of the building was partially incapacitated.

_That's my cue, _Spike thought. Making sure that his head and hands were covered, he pulled out a large hunk of wood that he had found in the trash and jumped back into the fray.

Normally, Spike didn't like beating his enemies when they were already down. He hadn't always felt that way-- in fact, even in his 'Sunnydale post-chip' experience, he had taken a lot of pleasure in beating down the weak and defenseless. Spike wasn't sure whether his experience with the Summers women or the fact that he'd gotten his soul back that had shifted his attitude towards always having a fair fight.

However, he'd spent the better part of a month gathering this particular group of fiends pace work and dirty laundry, and then he had stood aside while they had committed felony after felony. Now, he'd had his ass kicked by two similar groups in the space of twenty-four hours. Spike had long since passed the point of passivity and he was ready to show these children how _real _violence was done.

So it was that he didn't give any of the fourteen around him any chance to attack him. He waded in among them, hit each a few times, and then dusted them without a second's thought. The setup was working so well that by the time he reached his fourth target, he was singing as he worked.

"Just stake me once, and stake me twice, and stake me once again…." he sang as we went through soldiers five and six. "…It's been a long, _long_ time."

By the time he got to the ninth, he was having such fun that he had decided to do something he hadn't since the early seventies... something he'd done back at Skid Row in London. (By coincidence, Stanley Kubrick had been in that particular part of town researching a film. When _A Clockwork Orange _had premiered a few months after, Spike got so pissed at having his trademark usurped that he had put his car through the screen at a drive-in.)

"I'm singing in the snow," Spike sang as he passed his stake through the ninth soldier's chest. "Just singing in the snow…" he continued to sing as he spun around to the next vamp and kicked him in the head. He had nearly reached the end of the chorus by the time he was up to the last. Spike had been about to stake the man when he realized that he might be able to get a little information about Kotaski and Nicholae out of the vamp.

"Well," he said cheerfully as he hoisted the blue-streaked, gagging soldier off the ground by his lapels, "…you seem to have won today's game of 'Survivor'. However, your prize, this time, will not be merry bushels of cash but rather an opportunity to live to fight another day. It all depends on my general benevolence and what you tell me." He gave an unnerving grin. "Let's start with your name."

Several seconds of hacking followed. "O—Oliver".

"All right, Oliver, where would I find Kotaski?"

"I-- I --"

"Before you finish that stammer, I should point out that any answer that contains the words 'I don't know,' Is automatically wrong and will cause another round of righteous pummeling." Spike gave another huge grin. "Bearing that in mind--"

Oliver spent the next couple of minutes gagging and swallowing. Finally, he managed to get a sentence out: "I don't know--where he-- is but I-- know where he's--going to be."

Spike mulled over beating Oliver senseless anyway—he had, after all, use the wrong three words. Instead, he asked politely, "Where would that be, Oliver m'boy?"

"He's heading-- for the roof-- of the-- Gotham--Police-- Station. He's going to-- send out the signal."

Spike had never been privy to any of the meetings involving the Gotham PD-- he knew just by association that Commissioner Gordon would hate his guts-- but he knew what the Bat-Signal meant to the people of Gotham. He also knew how dangerous Kotaski would be in a fight. The Batman might be able to match blows with him, but if Kotaski had anything else available to him, he would have an edge on the Bat.

He looked at Oliver. What he had gotten so far was probably more information than any one flunky should have. There was something _not_ _right_ happening, but Spike couldn't tell _why_ it wasn't right. Not yet. Instead, he decided to try and pluck one more golden egg from this particular goose. "Final question, and then I'll let you go. You've really done me a good turn, but I'm betting that once you get a river running, it's hard to get it to shut up."

Oliver looked confused. "W—W—what are you-- talking about--"

"Your real master, Ollie. Where is his Excellency?"

Almost instantly Spike regretted asking the question. Suddenly the air began to get colder and drier around them. Spike knew most wouldn't be able to notice when a night that already felt below freezing became _colder_ than it was, but he could. There was something _disturbing_ about this particular cold, too. Something that was sucking what little moisture was left in the air right out.

Oliver's face changed a moment later. It wasn't the normal man-to-demon change that Spike had done millions of times in his life. This was something _far_ subtler. His eyes, which had been pleading and penitent only seconds before, now looked malicious. More importantly, they looked _very_ intelligent…

"You dare to ask for me?" Oliver's lips moved-- but it wasn't the wheedling voice of a toady. No. This was the voice of a commander— perhaps a king. "_You_, you impudent little whelp, dare to call for _me_?"

Spike wasn't sure what was happening but he could make an educated guess. "Let me just take a shot in the dark, now?" he said as he took his hands off of Oliver. "Nicholae sired you, right?"

"You are correct," the commanding voice allowed.

"And you're using some of your old nosferatu ju-ju to use Ollie here as your own personal mouthpiece?" Oliver/Nicholae nodded. "Man, you really _are_ old school. Darla told me that spooks with that kind of mojo with their sires disappeared when she was a kid. "

"There are few of us remaining," admitted Oliver/Nicholae.

"Not surprised at all," said Spike. "Vampires have been getting a lot harder to influence over the last couple of centuries. While you've been getting older, we've been getting smarter."

"Not all of you," Oliver/Nicholae said in disagreement. "Most of you modern-types are so easily manipulated that it's almost amusing."

Spike abruptly switched gears. "If we're going to have a discussion on the mentality of the undead, I'd appreciate you dropping this whole man-behind- the-curtain bit now."

Oliver/Nicholae laughed heartily. "Nice try, William. You must not think much of me as a creature of the night if you think I would fall for that ruse."

"I don't know," said Spike casually. "I kind-of figured with everything you built falling apart in a matter of hours, you'd be coming apart with it."

"What makes you so sure my schemes have failed, William?" Oliver/Nicholae spoke with the same good humor, although he was no longer smiling.

"I just dusted thirteen of your men." Spike's voice was matter-of-fact. "My good friends Faith and Nightwing have been destroying every soldier of yours they can find. Half of your army's gone, as are most of your commanders. You still think you can win?"

Now all traces of conviviality disappeared from Oliver/Nicholae. When he spoke next, it was as calm as before, although Spike thought he could sense some stress in Nicholae's voice.

"You think you've seen my entire army, William?" He uttered a harsh laugh. "More than a third of my forces are underground getting ready to start all crime in Gotham under my control. It will take you and your friends _months_ to find them, if you ever even find them _all_. The police in this city have been put in check, and the citizenry are afraid to leave their homes. _I_ control Gotham and my army can stand siege here with no difficulty of any kind. Can you say as much for your soldiers?"

"I would hardly call Batman a soldier."

This time there was genuine amusement in Nicholae's laugh. "My men have been delivering a thousand paper cuts to the so-called Caped Crusader. By the time Kotaski gets to him, he'll have taken so much internal damage that he will never survive."

Spike snorted, incredulous. "You are seriously underestimating the Bat if you think one vampire can stop him."

"Even when that someone was a warrior of the Guard?"

Spike knew Nicholae was right. Batman was a brilliant fighter-- the most impressive human that he had ever meant-- but he was not a Slayer. And even someone of Faith's level might have trouble with a member of the Carpathian Guard. Batman would last a long time, but he would still fall. He would need some kind of support. Spike prepared to stake Nicholae's mouthpiece before running to warn Oracle.

But when he attempted to lift the stake, he found to his shock that his hand wouldn't move. Then he tried to run, and found his feet weren't functioning, either. "What—what have you done?" he gasped out.

"I think you know, William." Oliver/Nicholae looked him in the face. His pupils had gone completely black. Spike had heard that some very old vampires could exercise psychic control through their sires. Now it seemed he was witnessing it firsthand.

"But-- I'm—I'm-- " Spike was having trouble speaking now.

"--young enough and weak enough to be held by my will." Almost all of Oliver's face was gone. He was in the presence of his Excellency now, heaven help him.

"You can't -- make-- me do this." Spike tried to be defiant but he could not tear his face away from those black pupils.

"I _can_, William, and I _shall_." Nicholae's voice held genuine sadness. "It's a great pity that we didn't meet earlier. Your strength, your resilience-- we could have done great things together." The sadness disappeared. "As it is, you will do me a grand service before we're through."

"What do-- you-- mean?"

"You are going to help remove the last obstacle from my path." Nicholae smiled like the beast he was. "Then you will see the sky truly fall."


	24. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Whether he was wearing his cape and cowl or no, the Batman always remained stoic in the face of either success or failure. He had devoted his life to remaining absolutely detached; it was the only way that he could function. He knew his attitude was dangerous; it had worked against him on more than one occasion, but nevertheless he maintained it.

The invasion of Gotham by the undead, while it had forced him to alter his strategies, hadn't been able to cause that to change. Even though his city was under siege from a threat that was as well organized as if by a general, even though their ranks seemed truly bottomless, and even though he had to collaborate with allies who were not much better than the evil he was fighting, he remained detached as ever. For this reason, Batman was now aware that something else was wrong-- something was wrong with _him_.

The Batman's limits of his tolerance for pain and exhaustion were very high, but he was-- unlike the enemy he faced-- only human. He was reaching his limit, and now, to make matters worse, he had been awake for more than forty-eight hours straight. He had not been this close to exhaustion since his initial struggle against Bane, and he remembered almost too vividly how that had turned out.

But exhaustion was only half the problem. Over the last two days he had noticed others. He had become even less flexible in his discussions with Faith and Spike. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and his stomach was disturbed. He had felt tense when speaking with Barbara and Tim. And even as he had used the Batplane to fill the air with the poison that was now incapacitating most of Nicholae's army, he could feel no sense of triumph or even any relief.

Under other circumstances, he might have written off what was happening to him as simple exhaustion combined with the intensified stress that he had been under for months, as well as the fact that Gotham City was no longer the same place it had been even two days earlier. But his intuition was telling him that something else going on-- something that might be more destructive to him, and by extension, to Gotham.

The symptoms had the earmarks of some kind of narcotic. The problem was he had no idea how he could have been exposed to one. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything that hadn't come from the Batcave, his skin was protected by his costume and with the exception of Jim Gordon, he hadn't touched anyone that he didn't trust.

Of course if he believed Faith and Spike's stories (and there was too much external evidence for him _not _to believe them), there were darker forces that could have been used to influence him. If Nicholae was as well versed in sorcery as Rā's al Ghūl was, then the vampire might have been able to use his magic to cause some significant damage to the Batman's psyche.

That almost concerned him more than anything else, because despite his repeated encounters with the Demon's Head and Talia, as well as other foes that dealt in that world, his understanding of magic was very limited. None of his direct companions (living or dead) had any real understanding of magic themselves. So it was that he could not be certain if anything had been done, and even if it had, he would not be able to find a way to counteract it. Playing with something (magic) he did not understand would only cause him harm.

So, what options did he have? Batman wasn't certain. The Batplane had been circling Gotham for two hours. Ostensibly, it was to make certain the city was covered with the anti-vampire toxin. Truthfully, however, it was more so he could have some time by himself where he could be certain no-one would disturb him. He needed to understand what was happening, and thereby to deal with it. His two hours of meditation, unfortunately, had given him nothing.

In the end, it was very simple. In his current condition, which would help the city more, and thereby hurt it less? His presence, or the lack thereof? He had been responsible for no injuries of any kind thus far, and he was maintaining his control… but would it become more of a problem as lack of sleep wore him down further and further?

The conclusion he came to was a simple one - it might be a problem, but not for now. The future was not important, right now - the present was, and maintaining Gotham. If he did enough harm to Nicholae over the next few days, he would hopefully reach a time where he would be able to ease up on himself. At that time, he would be able to examine himself and decide how best to deal with it, whether pharmacological, supernatural or a difficulty of another sort.

Moments later, as if an exclamation point had been launched in to the clouds, the light of the Batsignal pierced the night. Batman took it to be a good sign - it might mean that Jim had recovered enough to deal with what was going on. Or perhaps the Mayor had finally decided how best to deal with the situation. No matter which of them had lit the 'signal, it implied that perhaps the situation in Gotham was beginning to come under control.

He shifted the control stick, turning the Batplane in the direction of Gotham PD Headquarters.

The tickle at the back of his neck that said something was definitely _wrong_ did not come until he was within a block's distance of the building. Ordinarily, no matter the hour, there was _some_ kind of activity in the headquarters. Something was _always_ happening inside.

But tonight, _nothing_. No uniformed officers outside, no radio cars or Cavaliers parked at the front of the building. Nothing was moving.

It was suspicious, and it concerned him. One possibility, the most extreme, was that every person inside the building had been killed. Another symbol of Nicholae's leadership… but there were no bodies. As cool a customer as Nicholae seemed, even the least egocentric and most violent of villains the Batman had encountered left some sign of a massacre behind them… but here, there was nothing.

As well, he knew some of the Gotham PD was still alive -- the squad that Dick and Barbara had been training (with Gordon's approval) was on patrol even as he watched the building, helping keep the streets as safe as they could. Barbara had reported on their activities as recently as an hour ago… so what was happening, here?

In a break from his usual modes of entry, he simply used the front door. After he stepped inside, the mystery only deepened further. There were _no_ cops to be seen. It wasn't deserted, however. His highly trained instincts would have told him that even if the appearance of the space didn't make it clear.

People had been in the building recently. Coats and jackets hung on the chairs, half-eaten food was beginning to cause a slight smell, and an ashtray full of cigarette butts was on a ledge next to the window. A radio was next to it, surprisingly silent considering the unrest of the city outside. It felt as if there should still be people there - as if they had been, but had left only moments before he had come in the door.

Batman wasn't certain what to make of the Roanoke-like state the police headquarters had come in to. As for what had happened to the men who had been here, he could only hypothesize, but once again there were more important matters at hand. He had many questions, for which he only had pieces of the answers to.

Who had done this? Were the police still alive? Was this some kind of trap? The _obvious_ answers were 'Nicholae', 'probably not' and 'yes'. Then there was the most disturbing question: if indeed the headquarters was empty, who had turned on the 'signal, earlier? He was certain it would not be Nicholae, but whoever was waiting for him would be nearly as dangerous.

But who (or what-)ever it was that waited for him, he was the one who needed to get the answers, one way or another.

He made his way to the elevator that he knew Jim had used for years to come to the roof. In all the time he had been coming there, Batman could not remember a single time he had ever even asked Jim how he had come up top, let alone used it. Gotham had changed, though, and it was necessary for its safety that he change as well.

After considering the situation once again, Batman stopped the elevator one floor below the roof. He would use another method to get to the 'signal. Whomever was waiting for him was obviously there to fight, and the Batman had no intention of making it an easy battle.

_The entire building has been emptied and you're worried about making it easy for _him_? _He thought briefly, and then pushed it away. There was no time to allow him to be sidetracked. Not now.

He stepped on to the roof and found it-- empty. Nothing was visible, save for the BatSignal, which was still glowing brightly.

For the briefest of moments, he considered the possibility that this was the last element of Nicholae's work-- the signal being left on as one last nose-thumbing. Then he shook his head. No… Someone was here. He felt it in his bones.

"I've come!" he said, his voice raised but still level in tone. "You've done your little magic trick. Now come out and face me!"

For a few seconds, there was nothing. Then he heard a soft voice say, "Since you asked," and a figure appeared in front of him. T here was no fade-in, no puff of smoke, no bolt of lightning. One second the space was empty, and the next it simply was not.

The immediate impression was that of some kind of fairy-tale ogre. Whoever it was, he was tall, wide and battle-scarred. His skin was so pale as to almost seem as if it were transparent. His eyes seemed to be burning red, although somehow Batman knew that they were not that color.

It was the face and appearance of one meant to strike fear into the hearts of all who surveyed it. If Batman had not spent his life fighting enemies who were as menacing and violent as those he had, if the last several months had not been spent killing similar creatures, he might have been afraid. Still, for a moment, the hulking monster (and its sudden appearance) had unsettled him.

It had taken him less than a second to will that disturbance away, and once again the situation was simple-- good versus evil, the Batman versus it. He took a breath, and spoke. "Where are the police?"

The figure put its hands together. They were huge, with claws for fingernails. " Fear not, Caped one. The brave souls that guarded this fair city- are still alive."

"Where are they?" Batman spoke as menacingly as he could. The creature in front of him seemed to find the entire situation amusing.

"Most are on the streets of Gotham trying to help the people they have sworn to protect." It gestured to the station below. "The ones who were in this building have been moved to another location." Noting the hostility on Batman's face, it added, "The location is not in this dimension."

"What kind of dimension?" Batman demanded.

"What you Americans would call a kind of safety zone. A place where they will not be harmed, at least not for the moment."

"Why didn't you kill them?"

A smile appeared upon the monster's face. "Their lives are of little consequence to us for the moment. Depending on the outcome of the next few minutes, they will serve as a kind of hazard for us."

The statement angered the Batman more than he realized had been possible, before. Before he took control of his rage, he considered grabbing the beast and letting himself go. The analytical part of his mind put out a restraining hand a moment later; no good would come from violence, right now. He needed to remain calm, and in character. His voice was even rougher as he spoke again. "What does Nicholae think he can gain from this?"

The smile grew wider and more predatory. "Right now, what his Excellency thinks is not your concern. More important is how _I_ shall react."

Suddenly, Batman realized who stood before him. His voice was flat as he spoke, as if biting off the word. "Kotaski."

The Carpathian clicked his boot heels together. "Correct." His eyes glittered, almost seeming… "And since we have reached the point where names are important, may I call you Jean-Paul?"

The chaos of the last few days had been so completely consuming that Bruce had completely forgotten the story Dick had created (and he had agreed to the use of) in regard to his secret identity. After everything that had happened, he was uncertain why he had allowed Dick to perpetuate the falsehood that Jean-Paul Valley was now the man behind the mask. He supposed he should have been grateful (had they known his true identity, Wayne Manor would have been burned to the ground some time ago) but at the moment, he was more irritated than anything else.

He allowed the irritation to show as delayed anger, flowing in to the idea of being 'Jean-Paul'.

His voice took on the requisite tone of betrayal. "So he told you,"

"It's _one_ of the things he told me," Kotaski said calmly. "Of course, since Mr. Grayson was perpetuating a masquerade, I see no reason why he should have told the truth, but for now I am giving him the benefit of the doubt."

"That's very generous of you."

Kotaski smiled. "The victorious can be magnanimous."

Bruce frowned, playing in to the game, allowing a touch of 'bitterness' to touch his voice. "What makes you so certain you've won?"

Kotaski's smile became pitying. "I don't know what kind of denial you are perpetuating," he said plainly "…but even a layman can see we have won."

Now Batman moved forward. "Your master's troops are being routed as we speak, the chain of command that you have gone to such pains to establish has been broken-- I would call that defeat."

Kotaski's smile faded somewhat. "I will not deny that we have taken some damaging blows recently. That poison you just sprayed over the city-- I don't know where you found it, but it was effective." His smile reappeared. "On some of them, anyway."

Now Batman was concerned. If this European behemoth had gotten a heavy dose of the toxin and was unaffected, Kotaski could be even more trouble than he could readily deal with. "What makes you think you can recover from it?" he asked, maintaining the strength of his voice despite his nagging uncertainty.

"Our roots in the city are far deeper than you would think," Kotaski began walking towards him. "The right message and we can rally our troops to victory."

The Batman came to a quick conclusion about Kotaski's last words, beyond their cliché. "And I'm going to be that message, then?" When Kotaski nodded, the Batman countered with, "I've protected this city for a long time, against threats as formidable as you. Do you honestly think that I'm just going to keel over with one punch?"

"I don't know..." Kotaski's eyes glittered.

The Batman's reaction time and agility were superior to almost every other person on the planet. Nevertheless, he barely dodged the first punch Kotaski threw, a right hook.

"…Now is my chance to find out." Kotaski finished his statement before delivering another hard right.

The Batman countered with an uppercut to Kotaski's lower jaw and connected straight on. It was a blow that would have knocked down most humans, and a lot of vampires.

Kotaski didn't even blink.

He spun around and kicked the Batman in the chest. Batman fell back, and then caught his balance, using his motion to put some more force behind the haymaker he threw. The punch managed to drive Kotaski back a step.

The Batman and Kotaski traded blows for a couple of minutes, landing real hard punches and kicks but neither doing enough damage to give either one an edge.

Yet even as the Batman fought the Carpathian, he knew that something was wrong. His technique was… faulty. The punches he threw were not up to the full capacity of his arms… He was not dodging at full speed… The fluidity of movement which years of training had brought him was missing… A moment later, he realized what was happening.

"What did Nicholae do to me?" Batman demanded as continued to 'dance' with Kotaski, continuing to move with the Carpathian, dodging strikes.

"What? You are not willing to consider that perhaps I am simply a better fighter than you, Batman?" Kotaski's arrogance was clear in his voice, and he smiled, taking a moment to 'exhale' an almost human 'snort' of air. Batman frowned, realizing his underestimation of Kotaski, under the circumstances...

_He doesn't have to breathe. _

"What kind of spell did he cast on me?" The Batman repeated, his tone still stubborn.

The smile of the predator reappeared on Kotaski's face. "My master would not soil his hands with you, Jean-Paul. Your old acquaintance Jonathan Crane provided us with the means."

_Of course,_ the Batman thought to himself. _I should have recognized the Scarecrow's work by now. _"I've been exposed to his chemicals before. I'm long since immunized against his toxins."

Kotaski's smile widened further, if it were possible. "There is no such thing as complete resistance to anything, Batman, if you have the proper counteragents." Two quick rabbit punches to the Batman's stomach finished the sentence. The Batman was, as always, wearing body armor, so he did feel the impact. A little. Most would have had their hands broken when their fists connected with the armor, but it seemed to give Kotaski no real difficulty other than reducing his effectiveness.

The Batman made the response he was certain Kotaski was waiting for. "You gave him that counteragent, then?" A roundhouse accompanied the question, and Kotaski neatly shoved Batman's arm aside, nearly making him fall.

"It's astounding what a sample of blood from a vampire will do in the right mixture of chemicals," Kotaski threw an uppercut that grazed the Batman's cheek. "Especially after it soaks in the body of a man."

And suddenly Batman realized when they had done it. "The note Nicholae left for me in the Joker's mouth."

"You really are as brilliant as they say," Kotaski threw another punch at the Batman's face, this time connecting with enough force to draw blood

"And you think that would work? Foolish, aren't you?" Batman tossed a hard left into Kotaski's gut, and again, the Carpathian barely moved.

"We are naïve?" Now Kotaski laughed heartily. "He has succeeded beyond even his expectations!"

The Batman realized that Kotaski was right. In addition to dodging blows while landing more of his own, Kotaski had been slowly but steadily driving him backward. Furthermore, he knew that beating the Carpathian in a fair fight was next into impossible, so why hadn't he used any of the weapons in his utility belt? _A good question… why haven't I? _

There was still a way he could win the fight. _He would need to act quickly, and not give Kotaski any idea… _he leapt toward Kotaski, letting his arm drop back to his side.

Unfortunately, Kotaski knew it. "You stupid little man," he said arrogantly, "do you really think that there is any kind of fight in which you could beat me?"

The punch that followed almost reminded the Batman of Bane… he was thrown backward in to the Batsignal.

The beacon shattered as the full weight of Bruce Wayne smashed in to it. Most of the glass flew backward, but several pieces cut in to his cape and costume. It was too much... and a moment later, the Batman fell to the rooftop.

Only a few seconds later, the Carpathian had pulled him up to his knees and smashed a knee in to the Batman's face. For a few moments, the Batman's vision flashed, and he expected to lose consciousness, but Kotaski slapped his face hard enough to knock the wind from him.

"I wouldn't want you comatose before I kill you," he said before throwing the Batman back to the ground. As he watched his target fall, Kotaski picked up a piece of the metal frame of the Batsignal and drove it through Batman's cape. The cape was made of material meant to resist strikes from even Killer Croc, and Kotaski had managed to penetrate it with seeming little difficulty. He was pinned - the spike would not come free.

"Pinned like the insect you are," Kotaski said with a smile.

Batman did not allow his thoughts to show on his face. _If I apply enough outward thrust… _Batman knew that this was not the case. If he could apply enough force, he could get loose from the cape and keep fighting. Kotaski was standing over him, though, and the Carpathian certainly had more than enough weight to keep Batman pinned easily longer than it would take to kill him. _I _need_ to do something _now_…_

_Would he have the chance?_

The Carpathian pulled an antique broadsword from a sheath strapped to his leg. Even considering where he was, the Batman could see the sword was an impressive weapon. _Stainless silver blade, and gilt with jewels… I wonder where it came from…_

A moment later, his amygdala told the part of his mind which was appreciating the antique to shut up.

"I took this sword from the Bastille the day it fell." Kotaski held the blade in his left hand while caressing it with his right. "Since then, I have only used it when I was about to vanquish an adversary worthy of me." He looked down at Batman. "Congratulations. You're on a very short list."

It was in that moment that the Batman realized exactly what he had to do to defeat Kotaski. It wouldn't be easy, and it was underhanded, but he knew he could do it.

"I'm honored, Kotaski," he said, "…but there's a flaw in your plan."

"Which is?" queried the Carpathian.

"I do not propose to be buried before I am dead."

And with that Batman clicked his heels together. The binary chemicals in the heels fused, and then exploded. The blast was not a powerful one, but it was enough to throw Kotaski back, and give a slight upward thrust.

The moment that the Batman felt his arm slip away from the rooftop, he reached for the grapnel on his belt, aiming it and pressing the button. The hook shot away, the cord reaching the elevator shaft. When the line went taut, he pushed the other button on the grip, retracting the cord. The force was more than enough to pull him loose from his cape and start him forward toward Kotaski.

It all happened in only four seconds. Kotaski turned around in the last of those to turn back toward the Batman (intending to finish him off), and instead discovered Caped Crusader racing toward him.

The two of them flew together, and began to struggle for control of the sword. The Batman's strength (and the acceleration of the retracting grapnel cord) was enough to shift the sword to rest just over Kotaski's neck just as he and the Batman reached the elevator shaft.

The last expression on Kotaski's face was one of genuine shock. It appeared that the Carpathian couldn't believe that he'd been beaten. A moment after that, the sword decapitated him. His head blew apart in to dust before flying too far, and the wind blew the dust away.

Other vampires that the Batman had killed had their clothes turn to dust with them. Kotaski appeared to be an aberration. His armor and clothing remained when the rest of his body dissolved away. By the time the Batman had reached his feet, the clothes had turned ragged, and the armor was rusted, as if not used in decades. The only item of Kotaski's that still appeared to be in good condition was the sword, which was immaculate, even of the Carpathian's dust.

For a minute the Batman held the sword in his hand, thinking that it could stand as one of his trophies in the Batcave. Then he remembered where he was and what was happening. The battle had been won—a lot of battles had been won tonight-- but as long as Nicholae remained whole, the war would continue.

For once, the fate of Gotham City was not entirely in Batman's hands, and he would not be present at the final battle. For the first time in a very long time, the Batman prayed. He wasn't sure to who or what, but he hoped that it would carry weight for the Slayer at her hour of need.

_The fate of his city depended on it._


	25. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Given all the maneuvering and planning that Nicholae had to have done in order to form a base so deep inside Gotham City, Faith had expected his Excellency would have chosen a particularly impressive building to serve as his lair-- a mansion of some sort, or a massive factory like the type that several villains in Sunnydale had used as their headquarters.

The building that she had been directed toward was nothing so ostentatious. In fact, compared to some of the more glamorous architecture of Gotham, this building was rather ordinary. It was fairly large, of course, but it was pretty bland and unassuming compared to, say, the corporate offices used by Maxie Zeus or the manors in the wealthier parts of the city. It wasn't even as tall as the offices of Wolfram & Hart. After all the hard work that she and Batman had put into locating where his Excellency lived, it really was an anti-climax to the effort.

_But then, _Faith thought,_ Nicholae has gone to an enormous amount of trouble _not_ to draw attention to himself. Maybe this is just more of the same…_

Of course there was another possibility-- that Oracle and Andrew had not properly used their technology and had gotten the wrong location… Or perhaps that the information that Nightwing and Robin had gotten out of Robson and the other lieutenants who were with him that they had located when they had tracked him to his lair was inaccurate and she was walking into a trap. There were all kinds things could have gone wrong…

_And if my aunt had balls she'd be my uncle, _Faith thought a bit more sternly to herself. _I have been told that this building is where to find the man behind the curtain. I _have_ to go in it. This is _my job_._

This was true, but Faith couldn't help but wish that she had somebody, anybody, covering her back, here. But she knew that wasn't possible. Batman was circling the city making sure every one of Nicholae's men got their daily supply of poison. Oracle and Andrew were monitoring Gotham for any further signs of trouble. Dick and Tim were all the way on the other side of town, cleaning up the mess that she had not yet worked on. And Spike--

Spike had her concerned. He had gone in with his cell phone and radio contacts, but he hadn't made contact yet. Faith knew there could be (and were) any number of reasons that he might not have checked in-- some good, some bad -- but she was worried regardless. She had no doubts that Spike would eventually reappear, but she didn't want to consider what kind of condition he might be in.

But all of this was just more screwing around, and Faith knew it. She had a job to do, and she had to do it _now_. There were vampires in that building-- the thermal vision binoculars she was using confirmed that belief. Nicholae might be there, he might not; in the broadest possible terms, though, that didn't matter. She had a job to do…

Faith took a deep breath, pulled out her knife, and headed for the entrance.

As Faith approached the building, she couldn't help but notice that if this really was where 'the master of the universe' was holding court, he was doing so with almost _no_ protection. She had counted less than a half-dozen soldiers moving around or inside the structure. The lack of a sufficient security force was another reason for her to doubt what the building was.

This feeling of wrongness lasted until Faith had walked right up to the entrance of the complex, and prepared to knock on the door-- only to see it slowly swing open to reveal what seemed to be a small army standing inside it.

_Well, so much for doing things the easy way, _Faith thought to herself in the seconds before the soldiers attempted to jump her.

Of course, they didn't succeed. She was a Slayer, and one of the most vigorous and determined in the long history of the title. Whether she was facing five foes or five hundred, Faith wasn't going to let something overmatch her.

She picked a vampire at random and began her attack. Her first enemy didn't seem unusual to begin with—a bit broad about the shoulders but otherwise he was normal. He landed a couple of quick punches before Faith struck back and managed to knock him down. She plunged a stake into it_-- and got her first unpleasant surprise of the night_.

Her foe did not explode into a cloud of dust like the hundreds she had slain before. Rather, it popped like a soap bubble. One instant there, the next gone.

Faith had no time to dwell on the aberration, because three more enemies quickly fell on her. Two of attempted to grab her arms. Faith executed a move she had only seen done once before in a Van-Damme movie-- she leaped into the air, launched one foot in either direction and kicked both squarely in the jaw.

As they fell, the remaining enemy ran straight at her. She whirled around and hit him in the face. As he reeled backwards, she jumped forward and staked him. She didn't even wait for him to finish exploding before she whirled around at her two fallen foes, both of whom were struggling to find their footing. The one on her left dusted easily enough but when she tried to stake the one on her right, he disappeared with a similar pop-- and this time she could almost hear the popping sound.

_Okay… _this_ is new. Clearly this is some kind of magic. Nicholae's apparently got enough of an army fighting for him, and he's got the magic to create a faux army, too. And this is _special_ magic-- those two fakes hit just as hard as the real thing. Got to figure out how to work this…_

_That_ was easier said than done. A half-dozen more enemies appeared, and she had no clear way of distinguishing the mirages from the real.

Then Faith got a look at the six foes that were attacking her and realized they looked exactly alike. Well, all vampires looked a little alike but two of this group looked like they were twins. And, come to think of it, they resembled the first one that had done its little vanishing act before.

_Now I've seen it all... The most powerful black magic in the world and it _still _looks crappier than CGI._

But now was not the time to meditate on classic cinema. She had to figure out a way to put this particular mob out of business. And, a moment later, she knew how.

Batman had been willing to share some of his technology but hadn't given her any of the weapons that he kept on that cheesy looking belt wore. Nightwing had been far more generous, and had given her a couple of the weapons that he carried. One was a lightweight, miniature boomerang that was used for disarming foes. Now Faith decided to see if she could find another, more fatal use for that same weapon.

She took the boomerang out and started running to her left. As she ran, she threw it to the right at shoulder level.

The boomerang went right through two of the doppelgangers, causing them to burst. The third one was the genuine article, and he seemed really pissed as he fell to the ground incapacitated.

"Not bad for a gal who never took a lesson in her life," Faith said as the boomerang returned to her hand. Noticing another handful of adversaries coming at her, she threw it again and pulled out her stake for some low level fighting.

The toss and stake method worked quite well for the next three waves of opponents. Faith thought that she might be able to handle the rest after them without too much trouble.

Then a particularly hardy looking foe grabbed the 'rang right out of the air. He tried to break it with his bare hands for a few seconds, but it appeared that whatever it was made of was resistant to that sort of force. A moment later, he slammed it into the side of the building and left it hanging there.

_Dick's gonna be pissed that I lost one of his toys, _Faith thought. _More importantly, that guy looks like he's going to be more of a bitch to kill than the others were. _

Then the formidable foe charged at her.

_Ain't we got fun, _she thought as she prepared to rumble.

The guy was built like a professional wrestler, and he hit a lot harder than most of his friends had. Even with her powers Faith was having a hard time countering his punches. "Where the hell did Nicholae pull you out of?" she said as she countered his blows.

"I come from Jersey. You wanna talk, bitch, or you wanna fight?"

_Great. _Another_ Harvard graduate. Time to get this over with._

What Faith was about to do didn't fall under the rules of fair play-- Buffy probably wouldn't have done it. But, over Faith's time as a Slayer, she had come to believe that when the odds against you were a million to one, you deserved every edge that you could get in your fights.

With that in mind, she pulled out a small squirt gun. It looked so ridiculous in her hand that her buff adversary stopped swinging his fists to start laughing.

"You've got to be kidding!" he chortled. He screamed with laughter until Faith pulled the trigger. Then he began screaming in pain as the solution of holy water mixed with some of the toxin hit him right in the face.

"You goddamn bit--" He was cut off a moment later, turning to dust as Faith staked him.

The second after she did, she heard someone clapping. "Well done," She heard a cultured voice say. "I find it rare these days that someone lives up to their billing, but it seems you are the genuine article."

Despite everything that she had faced and fought over the past year, Faith couldn't help but feel a small sense of dread rush through her. After all the weeks of build-up she was about to face the ultimate foe.

The sense of dread abated immensely when she got a good look at what she assumed was Nicholae. He looked no different then a lot of the other enemies that she had fought-- moderately sized, average face, simple personality. He was wearing a blue suit that could be best characterized as bland. Hardly the level of the Beast or Sahjhan, or even some of the lesser nasties she'd battled in her five-plus years as a Slayer.

_The Mayor looked harmless at first glance too, _flicked through Faith's mind as she readied herself. _Looks _aren't_ everything._

"Well, here you are," Faith said levelly. "And you're not half the Boogeyman we thought you were."

Nicholae laughed at that remark. It was not a pleasant sound, but it was hardly the sound of a diabolical villain. "I would think that you, of all people, would know better than to judge a book by its cover."

Nicholae spoke in a genial tone; Faith decided to do likewise. "I suppose," she said, "…but then I never was much of a reader."

"Witty to the end. Something of a trademark with you Slayers."

For a brief instant Faith considered everything that the statement implied. Then she decided to move past it. "One could say the same for you, your Excellency."

For a moment the bland expression on the Prince's face wavered for a second. "I believe you overestimate your importance, young lady," he said cheerfully enough, maintaining a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"And I believe you've gotten so high up you're deluded," Faith said slowly. "Me and my friends have poisoned and demolished more than half of your men. Half of your lieutenants have been dusted and what minions you've got left are in disarray. The ballgame's all but over, Mr. Prince."

The jovial expression on Nicholae's face completely disappeared. In its place came a scowl that would have scared away all but the bravest of men. "I will admit you have done _some_ damage to my army. It will be awhile before we recover from the night. But our roots are deep, Faith. And it will take a lot of weeding to rid this garden of all its crabgrass."

"We have the artillery and the patience, Mr. Prince. " Faith spoke with a confidence that wasn't quite genuine. "Besides, how long do you think this empire you've built will last once you're gone?"

A cruel smile appeared on Nicholae's face. "You think that you can beat me, little girl?" he said smugly. "You're not the first Slayer that I've tussled with."

"Maybe, but I'm going to be the last."

"For a woman, you have some cojones," His smile disappeared entirely. "You really think you can beat me, but do you think you beat me and _him?"_

Faith was never sure what exactly happened next-- some kind of magic or a nosferatu trick. All she knew for sure was that suddenly Spike was standing beside Nicholae.

For the briefest of instants she was surprised. But by now she had been through enough villainy and back fighting that she knew what had happened before Spike opened his mouth. "Let me guess. You've done that voodoo that you do so well and you've managed to turn Spike back into the cold, vicious monster that he was before he got his soul."

Now Nicholae seemed disappointed. "You know, Faith, you take a lot of fun out of being a villain."

"I've been a villain, your Excellency,' she took a bow. "Trust me, it's not a lot of fun." She would have added more to her remark but Spike chose that moment to attack her.

Faith had never gone face to face with Spike in all their years together, not even in sparring matches. But she had more than enough experience fighting Angelus, both with and without soul, that she thought that she could manage to hold off Spike without killing him. So it was that she decided to try and take Spike out so she could deal with Nicholae.

In a handful of blows, she managed to knock Spike to the ground without even breaking a sweat. In fact, he put up so little resistance that Faith wondered whether he was actually under Nicholae's spell or just playing possum.

"If that's all you've got, you're really something of a disappointment, Mr. Prince." Faith said as she turned to face Nicholae. "I mean, the trailer was fine but the movie--"

She never finished the sentence because when she had turned to face the Prince something _very_ unexpected happened.

Faith had seen a great many vampires in her short life—from the very old to the very young-- and she thought that she had seen every kind of vampire stunt imaginable.

None of it prepared for what happened next.

Nicholae was growing taller. Every part of him-- his arms, his head, his hands-- began to expand. In a matter of seconds he went from being five and a half feet tall to tower well over eight feet. Furthermore, his face began to contort, and not in the same way that the demon face appeared on most vampires. It expanded from circular to ovular, and his mouth became a solid row of fangs. His arms grew until they were as big as salamis, and his hands became the claws of a vulture.

The entire process lasted less than a minute, and when it was finished, Nicholae had become the monster that had terrorized Europe for more than half a millennium, the creature that had won the friendship of Kotaski, the one that had killed eight Slayers. It was a beast so terrible that even an Ubervamp might think twice before fighting it.

_Yipe, _Faith thought.

"**You dare to challenge me?!" **the thing that had been Nicholae shouted. "**Impudent whelp!!"** And with that Nicholae grabbed one of the garbage cans that were nearby. He didn't throw at Faith, though. He reached his arm backwards and _rolled _it like it was a bowling ball. Faith jumped, but it hit her like she was a 7-10 split.

She landed mere inches away from hitting the wall. Had Nicholae thrown the can a little harder, her brains would have been splattered. As it was, she wasn't sure she could stand up.

"**Harridan!!"** Nicholae shouted as he looked around for something else to hit Faith with. Unfortunately, he found something. Even more unfortunately, it was a dumpster.

_What the hell is a dumpster doing this close to a trashcan?_ was all that Faith could think. She realized the inanity of this but was having trouble making either her mind _or_ body work.

Miraculously, Faith found the energy to stand up. This did not please Nicholae, who reacted by lifting the dumpster over his head. Using energy she didn't think she had left, Faith managed to leap to her left seconds before the dumpster smashed into the wall.

_How the fuck am I going to fight this thing?_ she thought frantically. _This guy makes _King Kong_ look like _Curious George_._

Faith was encouraged by her last analogy, ridiculous as it was. The fact that her mind was functioning enough to produce it convinced her that her brain was still working.

Nicholae was understandably perturbed that Faith had not had the decency to die from his hulk-like throws. His face seemed to decide he was going to have to move in closer in order to beat her. Faith tried to look at that as a good-- normally, in her experience, the bigger the foe, the tougher it was for him to fight in close quarters.

Unfortunately, no one had told this fact to Nicholae. He proceeded to throw a punch so close to Faith the breeze from the motion mussed her hair. Fortunately, Faith had managed to find enough energy to tuck and roll in the other direction

Faith decided that she had been on defense far too long. _Time to take the fight to him, _she thought. _I just need a weapon._ A moment later, she remembered the garbage can that had been tossed at her. "Well, what's good for the goose…" she said to herself as she picked it up. Deciding that calling this behemoth names wasn't going to help her out, she simply tossed the can with as much force as she could muster at Nicholae.

The throw sent the giant beast down on one knee, but he followed up by batting the can away as if it were no more than a very large insect.

_This is just ridiculous. What the _hell_ is it going to take to kill this guy-- a goddamn laser beam? _For the first time, Faith wished that she had a weird belt like the one the Batman wore. _Maybe one of its compartments would have had something that could hurt Nicholae.._.

_Wait a second,_ Faith thought to herself. _I _have _something that can fight this beast. Unless the bastard smashed it during the fall._

Faith fumbled around in her jacket. Unfortunately, before she could find what she was looking for, Nicholae took another swing. This time he made contact, and Faith fell back.

**Great thing about being the bad guy! **Nicholae's laughter boomed around her. **You're free from those rules of decency heroes have to use**!

Faith didn't know how she was going to fight back-- until she heard a familiar voice say "Tell me about it, pal," and a moment later a human bolt of lightning struck Nicholae from the side.

Faith wasn't the only one stunned that Spike had come off the bench. Nicholae seemed astonished-- at least Faith thought that was what it was. With his eyes and mouth locked into the same position, it was hard to tell.

**How-- how did you break my spell? **Nicholae sputtered.

"Don't you remember? Your little Jekyll-to-Hyde bit? You lost your concentration, old man!" Spike said as he rained blows on Nicholae. "That-- and maybe my mind wasn't as weak as you thought!"

With that he delivered another blow to Nicholae's jaw. The hit was hard enough to cause something to break, and the cracking of bone was loud.

Faith in the meanwhile had found what she was looking for. _The holy water squirt gun was still in one piece._ The problem was Faith didn't think a squirt in the face would to a great deal of damage to this huge, elder being. The older they were, the harder it was to get them to fall-- Faith had known this even before she had become a Slayer. _She had to find a way to sink this tanker._

And suddenly it came to her. It wouldn't be particularly artistic-- but why the hell was that a problem? A creature this big and bad _deserved_ a nasty death.

She moved forward just in time to see Nicholae come back to his feet and deliver a tremendous punch to Spike's stomach. Spike doubled over as he flew backward away from Nicholae, and Faith could see that he was trying to straighten up even as he fell away.

**I will tear you both into shreds!! **Nicholae bellowed as he turned to face Faith.

And as he did so, Faith delivered a roundhouse kick to the area that approximated Nicholae's groin. She knew instantly she'd struck gold. Nicholae screamed in agony. The instant his mouth opened, Faith began shooting water from the squirt gun down the great beast's throat. After three full squirts, she shoved the gun down his throat and crushed it with her fist.

The results, even by the standards of defeat, were impressive. The area around Nicholae's chest began to dissolve. A moment later, the flesh around his stomach began to melt away. The dispersal began spreading both above and below the stomach less than a moment later.

In the split second before his head began to dissolve, Faith looked him in the face and said: _"Bullseye."_

Then Nicholae exploded-- but not into dust, as was the case with most of his kind. Chunks of flesh flew threw the air and splattered against Faith and Spike both.

As Faith brushed them off her coat, they dissolved away in to ash. By the time she looked up, Nicholae was gone.

For a long time there was quiet. Then Spike spoke up, his tone sarcastic. "Bullseye? That's the best you could do?"

"Hey, I'm not Buffy... That whole pun-while-you-slay bit, never my thing."

Spike shrugged. "What really concerns me is how you get Nicholae out of leather," He kept brushing at his duster. "I mean this coat--"

"--has had blood on it before."

"That a dig, Faith?"

The Slayer rubbed her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm tired. I want to crawl into bed and sleep until, I don't know, half-past February."

"Know what you mean, luv. Could use a bit of shut-eye myself."

There was another comfortable silence. "Is it always this anticlimactic after you kill the big nasty?" Faith finally asked.

Spike shrugged again. "Sometimes, yeah. But I'm betting tonight there'll be a lot of happy people around," His lips curled. "Might even get a smile out of Tall, Dark and Broody."

"Maybe," Faith shrugged, the gesture saying the rest.

Back on the roof Batman thought that he heard something from downstairs. Had something happened?

As he walked to the elevator, the door opened. Harvey Bullock and a bunch of uniforms came out. The detective looked around. "What in the name of Saint Christopher happened up here?"

Batman, for the first time in a while, was speechless. "You're back."

Bullock looked him exasperatedly. "Where'd we go?"

And for the first time in a long time, Batman cracked a smile. He was discreet, though, and so the darkness hid the gesture. He didn't usually allow himself that luxury, but he had sudden strong intuition that whomever it was he had just prayed to had granted his wish.

Bullock looked at Batman again, then at the general mess that was on the roof of the police station. "What happened, Batman? Is it over?"

"It's never over, Detective," said Batman "…but things are going to get better."


	26. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Considering what she had been doing on and off for the last six years, it took a very remarkable sight to impress Faith. The Batcave would have done it, even if she hadn't known that she was only the sixth individual to ever be invited inside. She still wasn't entirely certain why she had been brought down here, though she had least understood why there was so much security around her as she had been escorted along the way.

"Impressed?" Batman asked, as he walked up, not making a sound.

Faith would have jumped if she were any other person. Even with all of her enhanced senses and Slayer training, and that she could pick up on a vampire at twenty yards, she still didn't know he was there until he said something.

"Well, you have to remember, the most exotic place I've held court in was a high school library," Faith said with a small smile, looking up at the giant playing card that hung in one corner. She still didn't know the full story about the dinosaur, she really would need to ask one of these days. "But, I guess you need a crib like this to keep Gotham together."

"It's worked well for a long time," Batman told her. "But given what I'm facing now, I may need to expand."

Faith looked around, and even arched a brow. She was starting to get the impression that the Bat cave went down several more stories, and he was going to need more room? How many more stories did one need for stakes? Then again, given the way he worked, he was going to be stocking up on incendiaries. She looked Batman straight in the eye, and despite everything, lowered her voice. "I imagine the good people at WayneTech will be more than happy to fork over the dough to spread out."

Batman's poker face did not change, but Faith could tell that he had been taken by surprise. "How did you know?"

"The technology that was developed to mass produce the chemical we used the poison the vampires could only have been produced by a couple of places in this town," Faith told him. "Andrew found one of your company's trademarks on the packaging. Add to that, Spike told me that Wayne Manor has some of the most extensive underground tunneling he's seen in nearly a century of maneuvering underground," She shrugged casually. "I was never much for book learning, but even I can do some advanced connect the dots. Either you're Bruce Wayne, or you're both pretty chummy."

Batman moved closer. "Do I have a problem, then?" he asked.

"No one outside the three of us know," Faith looked at him. "And believe us, we know as well as you do the importance of maintaining a secret identity."

"I imagine you do," Batman admitted. "I've spoken with Barbara."

"How is the Commissioner?"

That was, in fact, a very valid concern. "According to Gotham PD, he's only taking a sabbatical," he said slowly. "But Barbara says he still hasn't been sleeping well, and he's more jumpy than she seen him in awhile. It may be awhile before he comes back." His voice was sad as he concluded the statement. _"_If he _does_ come back..."

"Not many people hold up well living in a Stephen King novel." Faith was reluctant to bring up the next question, but it was the nine-hundred pound elephant in the room. "You told him about what happened to the Joker?" she asked gently.

"I understand how Jim feels," Batman said in as strong a voice as he could manage. His eyes showed nothing but the light of the cave around them. "There have been nights where I have wanted nothing more than to… " He trailed off, perhaps realizing that he'd said too much. "But we can't give into the lesser angels of our nature. If we do that, then we are no worse than the evil we're trying to stop."

At a basic level, Faith understood. Had Buffy carried out the horrible plan when they had engaged in their battle royal five years earlier, she would never have had a chance to reform. But she also knew that the world was not the black-and-white that Bruce Wayne seemed to see it as.

Her main reason for not arguing with him was simpler than that, though. Yeah, Joker was comatose, and without the restorative abilities of a vampire or Slayer, he would probably spend the remainder of his life under heavy guard in the Saint Horace's Hospital.

Still, Faith had seen too many horrible things--- had been at the center of too much--- to think that it was impossible for the Joker to return, bad as new. But for now, they knew where he was. And, if she wanted to take justice in her own hands, there was very little the Gotham police could do to stop her---- or Spike, if it came to that.

The Batman, however, didn't have to know that. "What else did you discuss with Oracle?" she asked.

"Gotham City will never be the same again," he told her bluntly, his voice as hard as ever again, suddenly. "Nicholae and Kotaski may be gone, but the roots they lay in this city are deep. It will be years before the undead problem in the crime syndicates is solved. As well, once the Riddler, Scarecrow, Two-Face and the other monsters of Gotham City discover a way to manipulate those creatures we'll be dealing with a whole new set of problems."

Faith blinked. "You're kidding, right? Normal people control vampires? Get outta here."

Batman cocked his head ever so slightly, and she thought that, for a moment, he might possibly be amused when he said, "You haven't had to deal with most of the normal problems Gotham encounters on a day to day business. In a direct confrontation with our usual criminals, without Nicholae's maneuvering, I wouldn't be able to tell you who would win. Tackling Poison Ivy alone would test whether or not vampires would last long enough to become fertilizer, and Mr. Freeze is another difficulty entirely. And I wouldn't wish to discuss Bane."

"Who?"

"I bring this up because I have been taught by the past few months when to admit I am in over my head."

Faith cocked her head, surprised that he sidestepped the query.

He looked at Faith. "When I spoke with Barbara earlier, we discussed several matters other than the undead, Faith." He paused a moment, taking a breath. "She has agreed that if you want to, you may become the new Batgirl."

Faith was surprised how much the gesture touched her. She knew they need her help, but it was almost too much. However, she already knew what she had to say.

"That means a helluva lot, coming from her…" Faith said, "…and I would be honored to fight alongside you and Dick and Tim, but we have to have a few ground rules."

"Such as?"

"I don't replace anybody," she told him bluntly. "I tried that at Sunnydale, and it drove me to murder, then nearly to suicide. I'm glad Barbara wants me to wear her costume, but I was never big with hand-me-downs even before I became a Slayer. Besides, I don't need a secret identity." She looked at Batman. "The things that go bump in the night, they need to know who I am."

"I see," Batman said simply.

"Man, you're talkative tonight," Faith said with a small smile. "However, you could give me one of those modified belts. The stuff you carry, it really could help...I'm even going to write back to LA and see if anyone's interested in doing some variations. And maybe one of those bikes that I've seen you ride. One of those would be bitchin'"

Batman nodded. "I believe that can be arranged without too much difficulty, Faith. You are certain you do not want a costume?"

"And what would my icon be?" she asked facetiously. "A red cape with a giant 'S' in the middle? Pretty sure that's been trademarked."

This time, she actually did get a smile from him. It lasted only a split-second, but he smiled.

"You certainly have the mindset for this," Batman said.

"I was born for it, " Faith said, and began to walk away. "Now we need to get out there on patrol. The undead don't go out on mid-winter break."

Batman knew she was right, and started moving towards the Batmobile.

"I never thanked you," Batman said.

"All part of the service B-man. It's in my blood," Faith said.

"Don't call me B-man."

Faith looked over her shoulder and grinned at him. "You'll get used to it."


End file.
